Contributed by Emily Hoover | email@example.com
It’s amazing to see how easily they are bought by your blood-stained dollars. They’ll sell their soul for a measly $1,500.
It’s mind-boggling to witness the prostitution of men who are barely able to vote; they cannot even balance a checkbook and there they march, clad in digital camo. They march for your, for your dollars.
It’s brilliant—this hypnosis. They follow you, Shepard. You wrap them in the pleasant patchwork of Old Glory and wipe the blood, sweat, and tears with your, with your dollars.
It’s remarkable—this ignorance. They are lobotomized by your promise of honor, glory, employment, and financial security. They drool as faceless organisms. You clean their mouths with your, with your dollars.
It’s incredible—this loyalty. They refuse to dissolve, although they have already disintegrated into cannon fodder for your war. You lead them astray, dehumanize them, with the scent of your, of your dollars.
It’s impeccable—this filth. Robotic, they wipe the scandal from the windows. Pathetic, they sweep the suffering underneath the rug. They are slaves for your, for your dollars.
It’s amazing to see them bloom in through your insidious resilience. They give their fruit to you. They wilt for your, for your dollars.
As sacrificial lambs, they are slaughtered. They do it for you. Only you. Daddy Warbucks.