Dead children should haunt your sleep. Dead children don't show in neat balancesheets, when they pay the price for wealth that does not trickle down. So down they all go and some names ring like curses. Economic miracles only smile upon an elite few. The lapdog's pops are to starve as well, a merciful reward for political support. All hail, all hail, all hail our would-be masters, we will feed their children while our own dig through the debris. Go, ride us like a mare. We can't hide behind ignorance as the bombs we fund fall on your homes. No hail, no hail, no hail the Architects of Misery, who leave us here to count the dead, while they sleep wellfed in their safe beds.