They never needed me
when they killed for fruit,
flesh and sex and sustenance—
proud were the days of man
when he hunted his own meal
made love to his wife without the aid
crafted his own weapons, yet that
wasn’t so profitable for some
to kill the world one by one
was too slow to start a business,
so man crafted the art of war—
death now has different flavors
like ice cream in coldness delivered,
blood’s coming through a sifter—
you think one, in particular, is chosen,
don’t fool yourself no more my friend
I live off your pain and misery;
your death along with all your family’s
is for me but a commercial opportunity
to buy to sell, to save and kill
a taste of heaven or hell
in this sense, I am your god
I am an arms dealer.