Souvenir Syndrome

Boots on the glass, boots on the crown,
Find the gold, let the bodies burn down.
They call it "liberation," I call it "retail,"
Smiling for the camera, stepping over the detail.
Watch the wristwatch tick—still works just fine,
Bought it from a major, now the major's divine.
Don't need a receipt, don't need a code,
Just a bayonet to lighten the load.

ORDER! IN! THE! CHAOS!
SMILE! FOR! THE! LENS!

Souvenir Syndrome, pocket the shame!
History's a liar, we just play the game!
Souvenir Syndrome, fingers in the ash,
Salute the flag while we commit the gash!

Refugee’s locket, a wedding ring’s gleam,
Trophy of the nightmare, it's a post-apocalyptic dream.
We're the vultures with the badges, the wolves in the suits,
Humming hymns of peace while we're looting the roots.
Left hand holds the Bible, right hand holds the pliers,
Ask the dead if they object—they're just silent buyers.
War crime? No, just a 'strategic transaction',
Sell the story to the press for a fraction.

LAW! OF! THE! JUNGLE!
GOD! IS! A! COP!

Souvenir Syndrome, pocket the shame!
History's a liar, we just play the game!
Souvenir Syndrome, fingers in the ash,
Salute the flag while we commit the gash!

Polishing the silverware of the deceased.
Does the Geneva book have a chapter for the grease?
No, no... it's just "collateral"...
COLLATERAL!

So take the watch... take the cross...
Take the memory... and the loss.
When the tanks roll out and the dust is clean...
Tell me, hero... what did you glean?