by Nick Gisburne
The politicians, pissing on the smoke,
Forever douse disasters they designed.
The powerless, the peasants, left to choke,
Are out of sight, and always out of mind.
As fools we forge the leaders we deserve,
The crooks, the cowards, voted out or in,
New demagogues, committed to preserve
Whatever creature comfort soothes their skin.
To govern is to gamble in the game,
But theirs is not the sacrifice at stake,
And, win or lose, the outcome stays the same;
Whatever, once, was perfect they will break.
Towards the blazing bonfire of our dreams
A streak of yellow, sparse, insipid, streams.
