The year two thousand saw,
more votes cast for Gore,
yet he would lose the race.
And sink without a trace of resistence.
Oh unlucky day!
When George became President,
the orgiastic press relentlessly stayed mute,
as if grafted to the root
of the system, to bear it’s rotten fruit.
And so the people were shocked and confused,
they did not have a clue…
George’s golden Sword of Damocles,
suspended by a thread.
George’s golden Sword of Damocles,
hangs above our heads.
The month of September came,
in fiery crash and flashing flame.
And some would seize the hours,
to push for new imperial adventures,
and avenge imploded towers.
Wars on poverty, wars on crime,
wars on illicit drugs.
Wars on terror, far into time,
where the state will act like thugs;
human rights revoked at a stroke.
Freedom is a joke..
George’s silver tongue and platitude,
roving in my head.
George’s spin and gung-ho attitude:
‘Bring ’em on’, he said.
Bang bang. Afghanistan.
Bang bang. The Taliban.
Bang bang bang. Iraq!
They keep us in the dark-
ling void of a cold and khaki world.
Bang bang. We understand,
might is rightly American.
Bang bang. Blood for oil.
Doubts that stalk the loyal heartland,
to strike like snakes’ uncoiled.
And still we tremble at alarms that we hear,
to live in mortal fear…
George’s silver tongue and platitude,
roving in my head.
George’s grievous violent interlude,
ensures more blood is shed!
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