An inconsiderable speck.

A “voter” that dreams he’s represent-ed
Imagining himself more progress-ed
Pops his ticket in the box at the polls
Just like any other one of the proles
Expecting his power to be wielded
And of course earthly needs to be heeded
In his unthinking self-interest no less
He acts like “the evil aristocrats.”
Whom he decries as base and corrupted
Because the franchise is the gift of gods
“It’s what so many have died for” he nods
Ignoring that life isn’t too high a price
And that death will come to us all by right
It’s not a matter of feelings or being nice
Human culture is best measured in might
In literature, art, and symphonies
Theatre, science, and philosophies
Those heights of human civilisation.
Whatever he thinks the alternatives
To be, they must be worse than this, says he
Why else would so many people want it
‘Less democracy is the best there is
Like Pangloss told us, how else can it be?
Nevermind that his voice has no real power
“It’s a stepping stone to respect and loving”
“A life of fairness and equality”
If he read Solzhenitsyn, he’d cower
Beneath the sheets of his blanket tugging
Up to his ears the covers so warmly

He has a mind somewhere ‘neath the layers
Past his sandy ears and head of prayers
Ever Christmas Eve, awaiting Santa
Not long now, the days of utopia.

With apologies to Robert Frost (1874 – 1963).