by Nick Gisburne
Your unexpected presence, here, today
Provides an opportunity to choke
A leader some, the gullible, would say
Becomes a beacon for the common folk
A price, a heavy penalty, is paid
For trusting words you say, not works you do
Oblivious, we ignorantly trade
Our futures for an empty promise: you
A field of lucky clover, in your hands
Would overflow with twisted weeds and thorns
Am I the only soul who understands?
Does no one see the Devil’s flaming horns?
A chance, a meeting, destined not to last
Your death will be a pleasure unsurpassed
