he's supposed to be a figurehead not a king
they always start the same way—
a handshake, a smile,
some cheap wine poured into a crystal glass,
the crowd clapping like trained seals.
then he starts talking about the people,
and how he’ll lead them,
how he’s their man.
but give it a few months—
the limo rides get longer,
the mirror talks back louder,
and suddenly he thinks
he’s got God on the payroll.
he’s supposed to be a figurehead,
just a cardboard cutout for the ceremony,
a name for the checks,
a face for the crowd—
but he starts believing the statues are for him.
you see it every time:
power’s a slow poison,
sweet at first,
then it burns the throat,
rots the soul,
and turns a man’s eyes into mirrors
that reflect only himself.
the rest of us—
we keep paying the bill,
keep clapping,
keep bowing,
pretending he’s not
just another double bigmac
From McDonald's on the corner
who thinks that you should pay his tab.
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