The Election Poem by Roger Kibble

Useless satirist of facts,
This age grows fearful
Yet withstands the strain
Of your governmental acts.

Cannot the content of our will
Dressed with hopes
Of might and purpose
Salve our nation still?

Or must we lie
To decompose
Amongst degenerates
With aspirations low?

Portly satisfaction is the day
Coupled with perversity,
Dullness, lethargy
And sad mediocrity.

We wait at a crossroad
Without direction or decision,
A bureaucratic whirl,
An utter void of action.

Why does our nation sleep
Amidst the rumbling of plaintive cries?
Even our dead souls do weep
Imploring us, 'unveil your eyes! '