Power mongering—the great façade
Stopped by today at lunch
Three ugly witches from
Tawdry Town gathered for tea, and—
quite on cue flew down
Disguised as “volunteers” of late
But growing in ambition’s lap
They raised their glasses and hailed
The chief—then secretly, they laughed.
What they wanted was nothing more
than an audience with God—
Convinced that even He would grant
Whatever they’d applaud—
But as in every fairy tale,
Or altered Roman myth
Shameless lust for power
Always ends up costing this—
An ounce of shame, a pint of doubt
An acre of despair—
Ask anyone that’s fallen once
The good life can’t be found until
That Appetite’s been quenched.
Or the witches shrivel.