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They come again to spit their words,
Our self-crowned Lords.
What have we not heard?
Are we not the gullible herd?

Their words flow like rain
Only to flow into the drain.

In colors of rainbow they paint
A blissful tomorrow with no taint.
And with words that tease our hopes,
They push us down the dark to grope.

And we sit and listen,
While our future, again, is written.

We have us only Hope as friend
And when he dies; then comes the end.

Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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