An Election

How did we fall this low and sink – To depths men go that cannot think. And pluck a weed while flowers grow, In hope our needs his heart will know. Although he stumbles at the brink – Where words don’t come. And when they do – Those herds that follow find they rue. To hear a mashed unmindful song – Draws fear of one who’s sung too long. Wrong notes, no theme, with pitch untrue. . . . We feast press praise from morn ‘til night; At least there’s one for us, they write. The fight’s for change, and change we must; Before night’s old, let’s go for bust. Don’t stand unsold, it might be tight! . . . But should we yield sweet talk the ground? Or could ideas be more than sound. Don’t shed those tears; there is a choice. If we can bear yet more that voice A future’s there and can be found.