A den of robbers are in democracy’s temple

Sometimes I don’t believe what I have said,
that said, where does that leave what you
have said? A crab of half truths scurrying
across the sands of mendacity, clicking its
edible pincers, seeking a rock to hide under.
Such is the voice of babble we hear, believe.
You meet a woman, she smiles, you lie, she
knows you have lied and lies to you, it is
written in your faces, transposed in your words.
Crabs, seeking a rock, trying to avoid the
trap, to be cooked and eaten by your own words.
A business deal is sealed, hand shakes all around,
you believe you got what you wanted, so does the
other side, garlic butter awaits your fate.
Squeeze a little lemon on my meat before you
pop it is your mouth to be consumed,digested.
But first you have to crack my shell, not an
easy task when your only crackers are your
ego of brinkmanship. Tortoise of the mind
has spawned the sand with the eggs of proglottis.
And so, you reproduce your self, feeding on the
soul and pocketbooks of those you deem lesser.
A tapeworm of society filling your jowls with
more than needed or can be held in a lie, that
sack of damnation, ones cuniculus to the
underworld of greed. A den of robbers is in
the temple of democracy, but who will
overturn the tables of the money-changers? Who?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour