The voice of the people cry out in the wilderness: 
"Prepare ye the days of the next overlord."
They dream of wild money and tarred net streets
But can only be guaranteed not a single day to be bored. 

Cast your vote, like exorcism in a closed building
Where faith died! You know the head-spin
Is the moment the vomit spells your inevitable failure.
Votes mean nothing when owned by demons. 

I dreamt of choosing a president all mine, 
But that's not mine for the choosing, 
And despair cooks witch spells in the back of my mind
To drown my dreams in dreary musing. 

I dreamt of choosing the laws to rule
But one person rules the parliament supreme
And waves a wand if any should dare to speak 
In his presence of the forbidden or of another team. 

I dreamt of choosing the mayors to ride, 
But the Boss not mine defines the governor
And delegates another to give them orders and more, 
And decides what moves, grows, or becomes manure. 

I dreamt of a great nation in Africa's armpit
But got a snapshot of generations in the belly 
Of the Beast. Maybe I shouldn't be dreaming, 
Maybe I should just stand for truth; just maybe. 

(c) nyonglema