The poem is a stark warning: when people elect corrupt leaders, they seal their own fate. It depicts democracy as a funeral—ballots like coffin lids, promises as poisoned honey, and leaders as foxes, wolves, or thieves who loot the public while twisting justice. The masses, blinded by desperation and apathy, cheer their own ruin. The final call is urgent: wake up before complicity forges unbreakable chains, for choosing corruption is choosing self-destruction.

When nations elect corrupt leaders,
the ballot box becomes a coffin lid,
slamming shut on the pulse of the people.
Promises drip like honey from forked tongues,
sweet enough to blind the starving crowd,
while pockets swell with pilfered gold.

They parade in suits stitched from lies,
thrones built on the bones of trust,
siphoning rivers of public wealth
into private vaults that echo with greed.
Laws twist like serpents in their hands,
justice a whore sold to the highest bidder.

The masses cheer, hypnotized by smoke,
mirrors reflecting their own desperation.
Fools crown the fox to guard the henhouse,
wolves in wool, devouring the flock.
Democracy’s flame flickers in the wind
of apathy, extinguished by complicity.

Wake, ye sleepers, before the chains tighten—
for in choosing thieves, we rob ourselves,
and the republic bleeds from self-inflicted wounds.