There are monsters worse than the devil,
cold men who eat innocence with colder lies.
I see them with grim lips, tight together,
where a smile hung like wet laundry yesterday.

What of blood? Are they too blind to love
too deaf to help, too broken to save a heart
from breaking like a dozen youth or more
that wept beneath the showers of a late summer
spent in the boyish glee of running, leaping, catching
tackling in the soft lush green grass?

The monsters wear expensive suits and lie
worse than the devil in clean places filled
with the accouterments of perceived power.
I hear them mutter through thin trustless lips
where a aspish smile bites and poisons
all those sad fools who want to believe a man
can be good if not always, maybe sometimes.

What of fame? Are they so wrought of iron
so heavy with their own fatuous foolish nature
they can believe such unsightly strength is real
that comes from the crushing of young hearts?
Let them rust away when the paint of their lies wears off.

There are monsters far worse than the devil,
men without hearts, men with cold hearts, men
with black hearts that beat only to the rhythm of their lust.
I see them with snarled lips peddling and backpedalling
through the nightmare where a smile was.