Apathy grows in a democracy,
A nation's dissatisfaction with its state.
Where our leaders no longer listen,
And our people are left to debate.

Our voices so often unheard,
Our votes no longer count.
The ideals of democracy
Seem far away and out of mount.

We thought democracy would bring us freedom,
But instead it's brought us strife.
Where our voices are no longer heard
And our country is full of strife.

A blue bonneted bandicoot with a sea calf
(amortized in blank verse)
scuttles amongst major malapropisms,
An object lesson of despair for students of the Classics.

In the Month of Hershwan in a study far from that place,
A Hebrew scholar paints calligraphy on a cloisonne
Clock. He expatiates Wallhalla – a Last Supper for his spectacle.

Adored by femme fatale (and others) for its chanced rarity,
They hunt for the preciosa, unbeknown that the bells are tolling.

Gatekeeper of the underworld,
whose body hides under a cloak,
introduce yourself as you get hurled,
Lying in wait for your next victim to croak,
even though it might not be their time,
No mercy for those cast in molten mercury,
souls drenched in primordial slime every being always spoken to accusatorly.

My name is insidious.
You may not know me well,
but you soon shall.
My dwelling is dark
and has a well.
I live under your sink.
There's just enough moisture
to offer a drink.
And enough food to allow me time to think.
Enough space to set up shop...
to begin to get plump.
Venture out into the night
and well, make your house my home!
Don't think for a moment.
That I know not where you sleep,
or the sill of the window
where your children
lie fast asleep.