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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