These are days of great unease

For the world’s residual  democracies.

A breed of no-nonsense ones

Man the slogans and the guns.

They suffer no uncertainties.

They have outlived Socrates.

Prickly bramble from the hedge

Invade the center from the edge.

Slithering hates stand erect

And spew venom to infect

The disempowered innocent

With purposeful murderous intent.

The wise ones wait their turn

Confident that the poisoned churn

Will not but run its course

And terminate in a giant remorse.

Those that actively resist

Taste the fearless, knuckled fist

Of  righteous gangmen who strike

On behalf of the god they like.

The god winks and understands

The  good work of these helping hands.

Green leaves look red in spring,

There is a sting in everything.

A smiling mongrel ambles near 

Unbeknown to where I stand;

Without reason he fawns at me,

As though good days were always here.

Best to use the mongrel’s faith,

And spread the  word of  imbecile cheer.