But bags of weeds in fine
suits, peddling lies these
pufferies called politicians
throwing hope around like
a raggedy child’s toy, toying
with honor, dignity and dreams.
Citizens caught in the whirlwind
of power’s predatory religion:
that bleeding worship of wealth
with popes called billionaires
sanctifying daylight robberies,
burying the wretched in the
blink of a golden eye. And still
they knock at your door, these
bags of weeds, these pufferies
promising protection, promising
the moon and stars, promising
you won’t feel a thing.
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