Haywain by Hieronymus Bosch
Twisted perverse minds.
No disgrace, no honour.
They talk about all their new finds.
They talk about furnishing the new world.
Cheap trash talk all that they're capable of.
Leave them behind, I say to rot.
Degenerates, filthy swines.
Combing the sewers but pretending they're suites.
And all the time as their erstwhile
Companions, we could lose balance, become too fluid.
Leave them where they are, I say.
Like dirty cigarettes in a grimy ashtray.
Backstabbers all the bunch of them.
Lining up to murder the innocent.
A disease very much like a sick man's phlegm.
Result of depraved thoughts in a mind easily bent.
They say something, they do something else.
Liars and hypocrites to the guillotine, all else pervade.