**The Drone Pilot and the Nazi Guard**


 

 A drone hums high in the merciless sky,  

A prison guard grins, watching souls die.  

One wears a uniform, the other a screen,  

Yet both take pleasure in the suffering unseen.  


The Nazi prison guard, his whip in hand,  

Took pride in breaking the weak on command.  

Inflicting pain, tearing flesh apart,  

For the crime of a faith, for the crime of a heart.  


The drone pilot now, in his dark-lit room,  

Fires waves that blister, that burn and consume.  

Neck, head, and chest—no mark, no trace,  

Yet pain and suffering twists on the victim’s face.  


Electromagnetic storms, unseen fists,  

Damaging organs, coiling like mist.  

Radiation dances, bruises bloom,  

Yet the drone operator sits smug in his cozy room.  


Or worse—the hand that never appears,  

Reaches with sound to mock and leer.  

Infrasound whispers where no one can see,  

Touching the privates, the face, the body.  


A violation repeated, a silent disgrace,  

The predator smirks—no need for a face.  

And when the torment is done for the night,  

The pilots/abusers gather in drunken delight.  


Guffaws and cheers, a toast to the pain,  

Like the Nazi guards of past who laughed at the slain.  

For what has changed since the days of the past,  

When cruelty is served from the sky like a blast?  


The uniform shifts, the weapons evolve,  

Yet hatred remains, no soul absolved.  

A drone pilot smiles, a Nazi once stood,  

Both drenched in the joy of shedding the good.  




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