The start of the poems: Politics- rhyme and reason?

Politics- rhyme and reason?

Right wing cunt- an affliction that seems widespread
From Santiago- all the way down to Stansted

Dominant stock that this uni seems to breed
Not good but necessary- the gremialist creed

The facts speak for themselves- I’ve never heard them have you?
That x and y equals z, d'sn’t make z necessarily true

The economy is god and god is always right
Money makes good. Can’t you see the trickle down light

A light-following right-winger is scary, one tends to see
The elevation to a fine art,'f the politics of me me me

Daddy was in the military, and daddy is never wrong
Or daddy went to x-school too, as did grandpapa- so on, so long

The lines of privilege that stretch all the way back
Although new money likes to join in too- political selfishness – it's quite the craig


Having said all this I’d like to reiterate
That a militant left-winger ain’t all that great

The dogma is the way and although god may be dead
Fanatism survives in those who, with fist ahead

Call for the red to live, the international sang out loud
Marx ‘n Lenin may be outdated, but of their determinisms, this left is proud.

And the cynics. Well the cynics are very boring, this much is true
Whatever the argument they’ll find a hole in me, and in you

And in us and in them- “they” especially are always wrong
There’s always a covert interest group- the eternal cynic sing song

A loophole- ok. But have you considered it form this point of view?
Ah well, if everyone knew the truth, think what panic would ensue

The masses, well the masses can’t be trusted, they’ll always be force-fed
Fast food diets of junkish facts, the masses-ah- they’re easily lead

And manipulated, perambulated, spoon-fed by the nanny state
I’d like to believe in democracy- believe in the system- wouldn’t that be great!

But “they” are always out to fuck you over- Especially from behind
And “they” will always bring you down- Intrinsic malice of their kind

Yes, Power corrupts-And these guys are corrupted to the max
Ideology forgotten, wealth the object in bellum and in pax.

(An april-may poem)