Taken With A Runcible-Spoon Poem by Mark Heathcote

What's our prophesy in their ridicule world of rot
theirs is the voice of a generation found garrotte.

Each leader and politician is a hatchet man.
Every pledge voted for a distant catamaran.

So they've done away with those inquisitional chairs
but still, we're the ones made to answer for their affairs.

In arm and leg restraints that are now invisible
they speak without a remainder, indivisible.

So we are now each force-fed from their runcible-spoon
swallowing whatever's in their remit-to-buffoon.

Many are too weakened, can't be heard and are the scourge
but like a catamaran, they can re-emerge.

Plot a new course, one with an even brighter future
with voices joyful that don't require their suture.