Pie-Pulled Profiteers

Pilfered, picked on, pummeled through,

I am the one who points at you!

Hungered, eaten, severed boar;

Two to steal and eight to store.

Ten, eleven, three at night–

Children ran. Parents died.

Sent a missile and a lie:

“Don’t want trouble? Then don’t fight.”

Lost are the chidings of the night.

Chaired are the monsters dressed in white.