When a man you voted for
Begins to speak of himself
In third-person perfect,
Know that the creature of your vote
Is now God’s own Elect.
Henceforth, whenever he harangues
With stern, opaque eye,
He sees you not as flesh and blood
But as bondman to Deity.
Having soared beyond recall,
Like a bird of prey,
His talons remind you of your fate
Should you slink away.
Thus democracies of our time
Become a stepping stone
For little men to acquire
A grandeur of their own.
He no longer answers to the world
Of reasoned back and forth,
But makes of your unthinking loyalty
The test of your worth.
As gods reward, so they say,
Those that meekly follow,
So he shepherds best the ones
Whose skulls are rendered hollow.
Your subsequent vote becomes
A measure of your devotion
To the only deity who represents
The life-blood of the nation.
No one knows what may ensue
Your return from charmed slavery;
Elects do not jettison thrones
In deference to democracy.
Democracy is not to them democracy
If people throw them out;
They have machines that ensure
This does not come about.
Yet time does come when an awakened “no”
From the meekest man
Brings down many a puissant throne
When trampled souls stir again.
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