The Politician


The token of saints, the bereft would complain,
It's veneer is nothing but vane
When the darkest of man with a grandiose hand
Is looked to as sacred and sane
For the wisdom he speaks is pirated cheap
As if grew in his garden alone
But a thousand men die with no regards to their lives
To mark these words as his own...
From here carries on the chains of the dawn
Pulled tight to secure all but the night
Then follows in angst, a horse of high ranks
To parade through the past with all might
But not a solemn tear shed as the anguish is spread
With a justified flame set to burn
And here they all gather, with the lack of the matter,
Of a better man to which they could turn...

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