To rule the world’s a feat that is quite easy.
It only takes a couple of small steps.
First, you must be garnished with great money,
and second, you must spend it how it’s best.
Gold and silver spent on you is futile.
Handouts surely worsen your advantage.
If you want the crown with no denial,
feed the ones that bite you. Micromanage!
Those gift horses will serve as transportation
to win you through the race, if you have hay;
a leader need not bring light to his reason
for his will stay in shadow, if he pays.
Which leads us to a third, unspoken rule
that if the public knew, they would revolt:
buy your Clydesdales with the wits of mules.
The foolish are the most disposable.
I wrote this poem to express my frustrations towards modern politics. Politicians today have a nasty habit to promise America’s greatness, and then prove themselves to be epitomes of what makes us not great. Sometimes, this tactlessness is so offensive, the politicians in question should’ve been impeached on the spot. And other times, I wonder if some politicians run to serve their country or to serve their lust for power.
But most of the time, unfortunately, he who has the gold makes the rules. It has been an unspoken “golden rule” since the beginning of time; and the new rules of American politics seem to be a horse race in my opinion: pay for the best horses, and as long as they’re fed, they will help you maintain your place as a leader, whether you want it for fame or fortune. Either way, I tire of it, and wanted to express my viewpoint where I was most comfortable — in the poem. Consider this poem my way of standing up on a “sonnet box,” to give a potential reason as to why some people we know stay in office, despite inexcusable behavior that makes the nation look bad.