They call it democracy, the great charade,

Where the righteous and corrupt share the same parade.

Promises dangled like a golden chain,

While the populace drowns in an endless rain.

From the boardrooms to the factory floor,

The whispers of hope knock at the door.

But the echo chambers feed on fear,

And the voice of the people disappears.

This is the ballot of decay,

Where freedom’s just a word they fray.

Divide the lines, draw the hate,

And call it the hand of fate.

Media’s a weapon, headlines ignite,

Manufactured outrage burns so bright.

Pundits and profits, hand in hand,

Spinning the wheel of a fractured land.

While the working hands toil in vain,

The masters gamble on the next campaign.

We’re pawns in their game, we’re trapped in their play,

Another election, another cliché.

This is the ballot of decay,

Where freedom’s just a word they fray.

Divide the lines, draw the hate,

And call it the hand of fate.

Is it red, is it blue? Does it matter anymore?

When the halls of power lock every door?

Revolution’s a dream, locked in a cage,

And progress is buried beneath the rage.

We’ll march to the polls, we’ll cast our say,

But can we escape this disarray?

The ballot’s a weapon, the ballot’s a plea,

Will we choose the future, or let it be?

This is the ballot of decay,

Can we rise above, or just fade away?