Poetry: "The Mole"

The mole has no soul
The mole in its hole with no soul
is stealing the hopes of us all
But it's only a mole.
You tell me it's only a mole,
though it's stealing our hopes
and putting us down
punching us sideways, to and fro
kicking us around
calling us names, telling us
we're losers and old,
we should run to the ground
and give up our show
He, the mole,
who's allowed himself to be bought and sold,
and turn on his friends and allies
for the sake of a few pieces of gold.
He'll see us buried and DEAD
Curious what's become of his conscience,
the tales he once told, vows of solidarity
his integrity
vanished with the flickering lights
of ambition
in the gigantic city of wealth and dreams,
opportunists and cynics, power and control.
The mole, the mole, the mole!
Sing a funeral dirge for the mole!
A wake and a burial
When we catch him we'll adorn his invisible character
alongside those who paid him
on the nearest light pole
and sing several prayers
mingled with anger and blood
for the flamed-out dead soul of the mole.