'' It's Autocracy, In All Of Its Glory '' Poem by Bri Mar

It opens your eyes,
There's another rise,
For those, who are not elected,
They're all paid a fee,
Which of course, is tax free,
It's with greed they are all infected.

Democracy my arse,
It's a total farce,
It's a coffin, for failed politicians,
You can't cross swords,
With the ladies and lords,
Making money is their sole life's mission.

A hereditary peer,
On us is a smear,
It's dictatorship, in a corrupt evil form,
On what we pay,
We have no say,
It's where corruption is so true to form.

Others are appointed,
Which is totally disjointed,
It's dependent on who holds the power,
No experience required,
You rarely get fired,
They all live in an ivory tower.

Democracy is dead,
When the people are led,
By parasites, not put there by us,
We have no choice,
They have stolen our voice,
Then they ask us, what's all the fuss?

Hereditary lines,
Are what, defines,
Everything that we find gory,
Our rights are defied,
The electorate are denied,

‘' It's Autocracy, In All Of Its Glory ‘'