Written by: Howard Bull

Polling the masses and the upper classes
Sickly sweet smiles, just like molasses
With duplicitous skill they fail to give answers
Spinning the words like ballroom dancers 

The lips that kiss the rosy-cheeked babies
Are the same ones that kissed those illicit young ladies
Words so cheap they’re holding a sale
Promises galore on the bargain rail

Grey tailored suits dart between urban hedges
Pockets well-lined with unfulfilled pledges
The doorbell tolls in an ominous way
Snouts in the trough chaps! It’s voting day