Vote
I fear our votes must be scraps or spoils
No rich man knoweth our toils
Upon us he performs a curse
For he is governed by his purse
We seem to draw no wit
From our previous failing
When into the snake pit
We go a-trailing
Honey words, sweet verse
Driven to hell in the politician's hearse
Copyright © A.E. Rivenbark | Year Posted 2014
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