Dear Democratic Party,
Champions of Disarray
You demanded recognition
And the audience complied
But nothing could quell your
Brechtian murmur,
The passion you are said
To hold even today.
Some say the room was flooded
By your adversaries,
But the feet remember
The ants you squashed
In your march to glory,
Though you appeared to not have noticed.
But the feet
Will share no beds with this puppet body
That the brain has pieced together
It is the feet, crimson with labour
That gave you your name
While the color of the coat
You wore to the throne
Didn't matter as long as the throne
Was a throne
And the spade
Was a sword.
Not a patchwork doll
But the injured, malnourished soles
Trodden upon
Will save this dream.
Now go introspect.