the endless cycle of political revenge
they sharpen their teeth
on the bones of the last guy—
same courthouse steps,
same microphones,
same righteous stink.
they spit justice like cheap whiskey—
burns going down,
makes fools feel brave.
every time a new tyrant shows up
he’s got the same speech,
different tie,
same rotten breath about
honor
and country
and saving the people.
funny how saving the people
always starts with ruining someone else—
dragging them through the mud,
calling it holy water.
you’d think the world
would get tired of the taste,
but crowds love the sight blood
if someone else bleeds it.
and the wheel turns—
some poor soul wrapped in headlines,
smiling wolves calling it duty,
and the crowd claps
because it’s not them—yet.
there’s no justice, kid,
just timing,
luck,
and who’s holding the torch
when they decide
you’re next in line
for the fire.
they’ll burn each other forever
and call it democracy
or truth
or whatever sells best each election—
meanwhile the rest of us
just want a quiet corner,
a beer,
and the chance to live
without somebody’s crusade
breathing down our necks.
and the sad joke?
when the persecutors fall—
and they always do—
they cry like saints,
beg like sinners,
and swear the cycle’s over.
it never is.
some nights the world
feels like a bar fight
that never ends,
everybody broken-nosed and proud
of the wrong things.
raise a glass, kid—
we’re in the washing machine of fools,
spinning and spinning,
waiting for the buzzer
and praying we don’t get wrung out
before the rinse is done.
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