Opium Runners

Tar-blackened airships scud over the horizon.

It is the opium-runners returning to their favourite fields.

Their return always aligns with the near end of poppy season.

They come under the cover of night to retreive their narcotic plunder.

Many a monacled adventurer has gone exploring,

Only to find their destinations thoroughly explored.

Many a monacled adventurer has gone exploring

And has returned on an mortician's zeppelin,

Weighted down with lead and bringing

A morbid smile to the face of the undertaker

The opium men thrive on battle.

Steam-guns filter into the Orient like oil veins,

Fuelling the flames of war.

It keeps the natives occupied,

Re-kindling old grudges and disputes.

Then They can sweep into the poppy fields.

Then They can crush out the natives

And funnel to them a mere shard of their profits,

Keeping them tied to the most useful path:

Defeat in one direction, poverty in the other.

The end of poppy season is nearing.

Soon the warm breath of zeppelins will scorch the night air.

Soon the growl of their engines will vibrate with malice.

The opium-runners are coming

And they are king.