The Incompetents

Wind blowing through the trees.
Why does Friday feel like
some other newly fashioned day.
Keep us all safe from the tribulations.
The horror, just a doorstep away.

With truth staring you in the face.
The illusion of control, crumbling.
We lurch from one fiasco to another.
Will their mouths ever form an apology.
For this extended dereliction of duty.

Cynical, with an eye on some stupid prize.
They resort to the age-old stratagem.
Wetting hands and singing happy birthday.
Will never wash away the peoples blood
from their cold clammy hands.


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