A silver tongue so smooth so slick,

Winds through crowds and does the trick,

They bend and twist such a polished act,

Not truth, but its what the room attracts.

A comforting murmur shaped to soothe the ear,

Its whatever anyone wants to hear,

No spine to show no stance to keep,

Just promises piled in a foul rotting heap.

The crowd applauds, the speaker grins,

A marionette for sure, but who is pulling the strings?

Obviously, their integrity is a fading thread,

The hollow words, they fly over their heads.

A chameleon in finest political dress,

Master of the soft yes, yes, yes,

But underneath there is a glossy lie,

A soul that once stood proud now runs dry.

So, a pox on those who speak to please,

Who bend like grass before a breeze,

But when the wind it dies down, the truth will stand,

While panderers vanish like tracks in the sand.