Is this a ballot which I see before me,
The paper toward my hand? Come, let me change thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal ambition, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A ballot of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the Marxist-infiltrated braintrust?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I alter.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was cheating;
And such an instrument I was to abuse.
Mine minions are made the fools o’ the other parties,
Or else worth votes a hundred thousand or more; I see thee still,
And on thy tally and summation gouts of votes,
Which were not so before. There’s no such thing:
It is the dirty business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one halfwit
Voters seem dead, and wicked media abuse
The curtain’d sleep; journalism celebrates
Pale Hecate’s offerings, and ignored mischief,
Alarum’d by his sentinel, the mob,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his blatant bias.
With Lenin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Lies like a rug. Thou sure and firm-set cabal,
Hear not my ‘mistakes’, which side they favor, for sure
Thy very stones prate of my misdeeds,
And take the present election from the people,
Which now votes in it. Whiles I cheat, they win:
Votes to the knave of Obama too cold breath gives.