ross-carpeting en mass,
a prevailing trend
in my nationís politics.
I pick no quarrel with defectors,
But party defection
does not translate
to a born again politician.
Itís the same taxi with a new driver
chanting their old sad anthem
with no verb,
and their song shared by none.
Yonder at the village square,
a pensionerís tears fall like rain
as his high expectations
have come to naught.
In my solitude I open my window wide
to observe the setting sun
The leopard has never changed its spots
neither the zebra, its stripes.
Defection, remains a mere shift,
that bestows new political
and when party politics goes awry
they switch back to their old political den
in keeping with no permanent friend
and no permanent enemy.
The arrow that leaves the bow,
idoes not come back, but politicians do.
Like a circus magician,
they would divert your attention
with one hand,
and execute their boo boo ya ya
with the other.