Bad machine.

There's a machine that's fuelled by pieces of itself,
Chewed up small and forced into the flames,
To keep its product flowing in good health,
It occupies itself with sordid games.

It does things it surely wasn't made to do,
Like fill itself with toxic, evil fuel.
And though it had promise when it was new,
Now it obeys simpler, baser rules.

The product is contaminated, yes -
By this self consumption, sacrifice.
Mercy, love - it's chewed up like the rest,
No virtue undevoured by this price.

And then at last, when good is cast aside -
In favour of the cheaper cost of sin,
Then the machine has cause to run and hide -
Without the goods, the rust is creeping in.