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.
Copyright © Gary Gordon | Year Posted 2020
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