Votes To Bars

My ess-o asked me earlier
tonight whether I liked
this place we’ve chosen to live in.
I thought a while, then said
“Suffering polishes the soul.”
When I remember what
was once loved is now tested, that
there’s nowhere to live now
without a neighbor’s rules, as tight
as sphincters in a church.
It’s gone; devolved too far for words
to save, the language owned.
The preachers rule, they’d like to fool
us into thinking they’re
as pure as is the driven snow.
Boss us around and scare
us with their votes and make our lives
as miserable as theirs.
But, meanwhile, we watch silently
as our historic rights
and freedoms fade in smoggy air.

We work for them and at their whim;
must live the way they want.
They make the rules, give us our food
then want to run our lives.
We’ve not come far from feudal times;
peasants are slaves for life.
Could someone please explain just what
the Constitution’s worth
when everyone’s sorted and stamped
into a mold from birth?
When zealots and control-heads vote
with money to their boys
then tell us to get out the vote
to validate their lies.
Will tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee
respond to different needs?
They’ve both been bought and paid for now,
know who they’ve got to please.
So keep your head down, join the herd
and then kiss your boss goodbye.
Turn votes to bars against the evil …
It’s about fucking time!
©  J. Risdon 1992


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