War Waged Between Your Thighs

big pricks with little dicks, too drained to resist

The War on Ya, Moron

There’s a war on, you idiot—
and they’ve sold it to you as a pin-up.
Glossed her up, legs stretched over the carcass of some nameless field.
Red lips, red blood, red flags,
all dripping the same thick, sweet poison.

They’ve wrapped death in silk stockings,
plastered her face on every screen,
seduced you with her curves as bombs fell behind her smile.
She’s the new goddess of the battlefield,
made to make you forget
the bodies piling up under her stilettos.

"Serve your country," they purr,
while their teeth sink into the flesh of your reason.
Their slogans crawl under your skin,
turn your spine to a flagpole.
But the flag?
It’s stitched from lingerie and lies.

War is sexy now.
Bayonets as love letters,
rifles caressed like lovers,
the battlefield a stage where they parade her as your muse.
You’ll fight harder if you’re horny, won’t you?
If you see her face in the bullet's reflection
or hear her moan in the roar of the guns.

But let me rip the fantasy apart.
Let me show you her real face—
The…