The Time Is Here Again

The dusty winds of the cunning liars:
In the dusty roads of the secluded mountains,

That is well decorated by termite fountains,

And well entertained by stone-millers;
Have fanned “freely” at the poor farmer.

Yes, the time is here again,
And the egg-like moving houses of the spewing magnate,

Gathers mud with its spinning legs, like a magnet,
Towards the natural but ceremonial home of the designate,

Who wears the smiles of a “suffer to gain”.

It is the best season of the gullible paupers,
As they drink and bath in dry wine,
To become mindless of their woeful whine,
As the truth is on the wane,
But out of which they become puppets.
Look at the tears of the forgotten child.
The child who wears not the coat of the capitalist fingers;

In which cotton, hide and tingle; nails of the capitalist fingers,

And on which death lays its icy fingers,
But that is normally belied by the brewer’s ale.

See, he is reading his campaign file,
A fictitious file of blames tiled,
Blames tiled with promises piled,
Promises piled but truth defiled,
Truth defiled in his lip serving solutions profile.

They are pre-occupied with getting our mandate,
So they are promising us many things without a single date,

Blame game is the highest competence of the candidate,

And tribal bigotry is what they spend time to elucidate,

While corruption remains an achievement they come to consolidate.

They have avowed devoutly to devour our national creed,

In their devoted pursuit of their personal greed,
As they devote their time in a tribalism spree,
In their vote buying propaganda campaign spree,
Promising everything free; with their cronies crewed.

Look, our national confidence is waning,
As their personal dividends keep winning,
Winning under schemes of political schism:
As diabolism and tribalism becomes the winning mechanism,

But a mechanism which is in antagonism with nationalism.

What has happened to politics of alternative?
While our polistricksters remain vindictive.
Or vendetta is now more lucrative?
As robbing the poor has always being their motive.
Though their motives appear more secretive.
Yes, the time is here again,
And the truth sinks with much disdain,
In the eyes and tongue of the magnate’s campaign,

By the brewer’s ale of cocaine,
As the puppets pop Champaign in the magnate’s domain.

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