They stage elections like a traveling show,
With smiling puppets dancing heel and toe.
They promise rivers where the fields are dry,
And feed the starving masses with a lie.
The ink is fresh upon the parchment scroll,
Yet every signature forecloses soul.
They tax the air we breathe, the light of sun,
And count the empty shells after it’s done.
Behind the podium of polished oak,
A tyrant laughs and calls the law a joke.
The judges nod in synchronized disgrace,
While justice is strangled in a public place.
We built their palaces with calloused hands,
We bled to feed the borders of their lands.
Now every pathway leads to iron bars,
Beneath a canopy of stolen stars.
So let them write their histories in gold,
And guard the stolen wealth that they have sold.
For empires built on tyranny and pain,
Must drown at last in their own crimson rain.
