A breed of their own, slinking through the cracks of D.C. like junkies hunting for a fix—
power, money, control.
Strip away the glossy suits and hollow speeches
and watch the grand facade of kings and queens vanish.
Behind the curtains of corruption, you’ll find commoners,
servants trapped inside the illusion of superiority.
They were meant to be janitors,
fixing toilets and tax codes,
no different than the man pushing a lawnmower,
or slinging garbage into the back of a truck.
They exist to serve, to clean up the wreckage,
but somewhere along the way—on garbage day—
they took a detour, plugged into the system like addicts,
craving attention and worship like a freshly cooked, hot shot of heroine.
They were meant to be disposable,
like cheap labor, background noise,
used needles in a hazardous waste can, faceless and forgettable.
This is my official announcement: the revolution won’t be on YouTube, X, or Instagram.
260 million will take to the streets for a collective reminder—
these pawns are nothing but functionaries,
meat for the grinder.
We will teach them how to earn their keep like the rest of us,
hired hands who forgot what they signed up for.
Let’s put brooms in their filthy briefcases and watch them clean the mess they’ve made.
