But there is a name we can earn a child
Born with the fluidic cells of deceit.
He is a body of knitted brows
That has grown into piqued poetry.
He could be called a neuter nation
Whose identity and intuition is drowned in an eddy of putrid
That its history becomes only a loud hiss of story!
I welcome a vacancy into the homes of some two;
You that sit on the lounger of power
Upholstered with selfishness and carelessness,
You become the best pronunciation of wickedness.
Are you still not pleased with the nakedness you wrap
around your nation?
Friend, you are red.
You hold a colony of anger, which you cannot lead,
And hope in you is a burning wick of lifelessness.
Would you clothe, first, the nation in your home,
And blot your anger with active participation?
Move with the strong beat of governance.
Or does it not take two, still, to tango?
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