Under This Sun
The Dittle-dots
Construct their plots
While the Rotten Randy’s
Enlarge their lies.
They all take hold
Of Dealer’s gold
While waving flags
In election skies.
The kings are loose
To cook the Goose
But there is no chicken
In every pot.
Their promises are many
Their truth isn’t any
So their words don’t mean
You’ll get what you bought.
We’ve seen it before,
What waits in store,
Their secrets are brewing
Along with the stew.
One wants your money
For the rich man, honey,
And the other will take it
For a socialist’s brew.
Ah, election time,
The Gemini Sign
But the power resides
With the very few.
No matter what age
They pay the right wage
To get things done
That they want to do.
So read-um and weep,
Most are just sheep
Following those shepherds
That are told what to do
By the royal array
Who will get their way.
‘Cause under this sun
There is nothing new.
D. Thurmond / JE Falcon
09-26-2019
