Politics

Listen to my wisdom then, when I plea...

In Congress halls, they joke and fight,

They strut and preen, and show their might

Their wealth on display like a peacock’s feathers

Just as vain but with time it too will wither

For all their wealth unlimited, they are so poor

They live as if they are never going to die

And when they die it will be as if as they have never lived

Is this not such a mystery Mr. God?

How have these poor rich beings never met love?

Not lust, Mr God, but love, pure, never fading and its recipient never shading,

Through troubles and trials, it always stays

Its heart bleeding every time the other hurts

Their hearts entwined as they age in endless grace,

A bond that no time or trial can betray

Now THAT is called love, into which their soulless selves can never hope to foray

Politics, they call it, Mr. God, anointing themselves as leaders

Seeking the license to change the “system”

They speak of this change from towers high,

But Mr. God, do they ever hear the common people's toil and sigh?

With empty words, they plot and scheme,

Blind to the hopes and lives that are lost to their dreams

Born into gold, they walk so tall,

They crush the common man if they even dare to crawl.

But wealth can't buy the love they crave,

Nor hide that greed that digs their very soul’s grave.

They sit in their ivory towers, with words sparring

Each of their debates a meme in the social stream’s warring.

Scandals roll with late-night shows,

Polls swing by fast even before their results anybody knows.

Their tweets and their gaffes fuel the flames,

Always shaming the other, for ever dodging the blame.

Satirists feast on their escapades, my very soul aches as their punchlines flow,

Common man sinking slowly into a quagmire of despair in this opulent absurdist show.

While they sip their champagne and set the laws,

They pay no heed to the workers that toil with calloused paws.

Tax breaks flow, their wealth expands,

They let crumbs slip through their tightened hands,

They call it aid, Mr God, and then they swiftly take it back,

They cut the lifelines, calling them slack.

The ladder to obtain even one square meal they have yanked away, my ears bleed to hear them as they screech,

"Harder folks, work harder, the top you too can reach."

Like a dragon sitting on its gold, they hoard their wealth in towers tall,

Thinking it to be the be all and end all, believing that time won’t make them fall.

With their bejewelled hands they shape this planet’s despair,

This planet, that rightfully belongs to my children’ children’s heirs

Clothed in all splendour, they sigh and claim it isn’t fair.

But the rich man’s bones too will rot, and their wealth too will fade,

Beware then and know that none of your bribes can buy the reaper’s blade.

For all your riches and all your might, you will yet meet your creator and your fate,

And then find that it is too late, that while still alive, it was death that you ate.