I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
Bob Dylan: A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
Everybody gather round, that time of year, they’re on the stump.
Don’t want you but they want your vote.
Democracy: the killing joke.
Never be perfect but it’s all we got, so listen up.
Which rich shirt are you bound to pick?
Really? He’s such a prick.
Cost him a million just to open his mouth and fly down South.
Cost twice that when he flew North and gave that speech.
You know the one: last week’s.
I hear that one has a billion backers, dollars, man.
No money, no love.
It’s such a scam.
But I’m not cynical – no, not me – I hitch my star to integrity and sing.
They can’t bottle what they can’t sell.
You can easily tell.
I vote the way I always will, for hope you can’t find in a wishing well.
For the sweat that laid the railway tracks, the aching backs.
They’re out there, still.