User Review( votes)
written by: Beauchard
Cash, pressure, votes… so does corruption go.
A spade to heads of all who oppose,
The decaying, dying town’s long, drawn fade.
For feigned omnipotence, do men souls trade
In this never-ending, sordid charade.
Shake hands, threaten, sue:
Do all such things,
To power accrue.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
It is an excerpt from 'Death in a Small Town', a long poem I am currently writing.