riddle

my cries are heard well through the night,
clearly through crisp crack-shot and blunder;
butcherbirds venture laboriously through the plight,
intent to flourish in the plunder.

 

men and manservant don their maquillage,
jeering for death with preparation to mar;
men and manservant make their way,
trudging on, onward to bar.

 

bathing in blood, baptism of fire,
horrific banter, our situation is dire.
i am birthed of divine indignation.