This is dedicated to the Winged Monkeys from The Wizard of Oz, and to evil minions everywhere.
There was a time when, honour justly earned, We swore our service to who saved our kind. And, since a vow means little if it's spurned, Made sure to swear an oath we knew would bind. We trusted that one with the grace to save Would also have the honour to rule well. We never thought that power, they might crave, Or that our oath of service, they might sell. So now our curse, both punishment and sin, Is that we shall not break the oath we swore. If our commands have demons ushered in, Then, with regret, we'll carry out the chore.
And thus a tribe whose honour was their name A by-word for a thing of fear became.