Old-Trick Ponies
(with gratitude to Anthony Burgess and W. B. Yeats for exemplary ottava rima)

The Minion Mouthpiece mumbles mantras madly,
propounding pompous platitudes on cue;
deceiving “democratic” dupes, and gladly;
receiving such reward as is their due:
contempt and cynicism for how badly
they’ve lied, with scant concern for what is true.
Of course, when ordered to mislead the masses
they promptly do, this herd of horses’ asses.

“But flacks get paid and even earn promotions,”
some say who find excuses for this ilk.
For them, they need no philosophic notions
when it’s the Treasury they wish to bilk
for oligarchs as global as the oceans
who view what others own as mother’s milk.
How better think of this Factotum Corps
than in and out of The Revolving Door?

Then, after “service” comes a think-tank panel,
or other cushy comfy sinecure,
like their own TV show or YouTube channel;
books bought in bulk by “donors” to assure
eyes over which are pulled both wool and flannel.
Such is career venality’s allure.
The Greasy Pole, as graphics, works as well
to picture this for those who cannot spell.

Again comes round the next election season.
One half of The Duopoly then “wins”
and wants back in their offices. They reason
that such belongs to them and not their twins
whose occupation they regard as treason,
only the first among their many sins.
Our courts call two half-parties “corporations”:
an anti-trust cartel in other nations.

So round and round or up and down they scramble
intent on sophistry to get ahead.
Eyes shut, mouths open, recklessly they gamble
with ours and our descendants’ daily bread.
Their touch is of the nettle and the bramble
but poisonous so others wind up dead.
These Old-Trick Ponies “govern” us while they
devote themselves to mainly making hay.