Confessions Of A Coming Demagogue Poem by Dave SmithWhite

I shape emotions' pleasing surface,
With a mob of words,
To the spooked and nervous.
I ape devotions, I mint new fervours,
Predicting coming fads.
I'm well known to the lads,
And their richer dads.

I squeeze promotion's jealous facets:
The rage and fear of busted assets.
When hatred's voice spits like acids,
Burning in a glass.
I give the truth a pass.
No traitor to my class.

I tease the notion that we're just too placid.
I erect the walls and defend the flaccid.
The guilt trussed-up in mental cassocks,
Is a condition that god has planned,
When he set up his brand,
In this, his chosen land.

So grab your horn and blow the trumpet,
For the native born deserving comfort;
Hold back your scorn reserved for strumpets
Of that aberrant breed;
That keeps it's papist creed,
For their delinquent need,
To propagate their seed,
Like coarse and greasy weed,
Like rapists and their deeds!

I spread the lotion of protection,
By sleight of hand and misdirection.
As the inbred quotient stave off infection,
From the foreign hordes,
Who'd steal their bed and board,
Like Latin pimps and bawds.
While some may call me fraud,
I strike a common chord,
With views I once deplored.
And for this I am adored!