Right Will Prevail

Round and round the tumblers of the divining machine roll
The puppet does not know it is the puppeteer who controls every move
The boundaries of the constitution begin to deteriorate, democracy can not withstand
The people are angry as they march against the facade of law
Trust between countries is gone, and the ceremonial agreements of union are dissolved.
Those who used to believe in freedom are now in doubt, and those in power revel in their assault.

Surely the pinnacle will be reached;
Surely that which is right will prevail.
Right will prevail! Even as the idealistic thought has been contemplated
The looming figure of Anarchy
Troubles my dreams of hope: the vibrant ideals of democracy now a consortium of deceit and corruption;
To one side is Scylla with its razored shoals
A promise of being for the people at any cost
To the other side is Charybdis with its dizzying prose
Sucking the spoils of people’s hard work to grease the cogs of the machine guised as prosperity.

The cries of the people are heard and the future I see
Centuries of ignorance and contempt
Have erupted into the war against that which is right,
And what humanity, its time has arrived,
Is dragging its festered torso towards Abyssinia to be unleashed?

This is another attempt at writing a different form of poetry.  This poem is a parody poem.  A parody poem is a work created to mock, comment on, or trivialize an original work, its subject, author, style, or some other target, by means of humorous,  satiric  or  ironic  imitation.
The poem that I am using in this parody is The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats.  It was written in 1919 after the first World War.  The original poem is as follows:
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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