Elections: A Sonnet
Elections are a kind of plague, it’s true–
Disease preferable only to rule
By a real totalitarian crew.
Still, voters play the duped and sickened fool.
You’d think deception, hatred, and old tricks
Might finally spend themselves, no longer work.
But no. The hideous machinery always clicks.
The voters’ leash is given a quick jerk.
The system is run down. It parodies
Itself–and still is taken seriously.
And politics, a circus run by fleas,
Somehow sustains itself, mysteriously.
God help us break the habit of ourselves
And move where empathetic reason dwells.