The Next Dance

The afterglow of the polls Has refused to leave the sky The euphoria like never before Still tingles my countrymen. Some are elated At the dire switch From ‘business as usual’ Others draw gore With their senseless machete That victory does not befit the chosen. And they hide within fanaticism. But the blood of the ten And others are crying. Come next dance, The voice behind the heads Of the vagabonds would Come out like a masquerade To dance again. And voter will queue up Like zombies in blood-stained Corps Members costumes to Teach them one more lesson.