In the shadowed halls where whispers linger,
politics dances with the syndrome of corruption,
a waltz of power,
where drugs and money are the tune,
each ear a prisoner to the siren call.
Promises paper thin,
like smoke curling in the air,
they fade before the light of dawn,
leaving only the residue of ambition,
the stains of greed untouched by conscience.
Votes exchanged like currency,
fingers stained with the ink of betrayal,
as the puppets pull their strings in secret rooms,
where the air is thick with unspoken truths,
and the price of a soul is just a ticket.
They clad their rhetoric in silk and gold,
their speeches wrapped in veneer,
but behind closed doors,
the language is raw,
a formula of corruption carved in blood.
What is justice but a game to them,
a pawn moved on the board of exploitation,
while the hungry cry, the weak tremble,
and the powerful smile,
counting their spoils with gluttonous glee.
But beneath the surface,
the tide bends,
rebellion stirs with a hunger for change,
as truth, like a seed buried deep,
begins to rise.
The poison they feed us might spread,
but the antidote is resilience,
the call of unity against the echo of greed—
a movement forged in the fires of hope,
where drugs and money will no longer bind us,
and power will answer to the people.