‘The Kling-On-PM’ – He Has No Power – No Morals – No Ethics – No Integrity – No Honesty – No Loyalty – No Faith – But is intent on dragging his Nation to the ‘Pit-Of-Hell’ To hand over his Nation to the highest Socialist Bidder, Lock-Stock-And Barrel – With no conscience to bother him because of his psychotic disability
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In marble halls he wears a borrowed crown,
A paper king in tattered, thin renown.
He thunders loud yet stands on hollow ground,
Where truth is lost and conscience can’t be found.
No power in the pulse behind his hand,
No moral compass pointing through the land.
No ethics lighting lanterns in the night,
No integrity to guard the right.
No honesty to steady what he swore,
No loyalty to those he led before.
No faith in roots that held the nation fast,
Just shifting shadows from a broken past.
He chants of progress, painted bold and bright,
While dimming every steadfast, guiding light.
He bargains futures, lock and stock and steel,
And signs away His Nation’s ideal.
He courts the bidder with the fattest purse,
And calls the bargain anything but curse.
The highest hand becomes his chosen guide,
As heritage is quietly set aside.
He trims the sails to any passing gale,
And calls retreat a visionary tale.
The pit he digs is lined with gilded lies,
A velvet drop beneath unwatchful eyes.
He speaks of dawn while drawing down the sun,
Proclaims the race is lost before begun.
A nation’s trust becomes a traded coin,
Its fractured voice too scattered to rejoin.
No conscience knocks upon his guarded door,
No shame seeps through the polished palace floor.
If madness whispers, he mistakes it crown,
And wears delusion like a sacred gown.
He brands dissent as treachery and sin,
Yet hears no riot raging from within.
The people watch the pageant and the flame,
And slowly learn the cost of gilded shame.
For kingdoms fall when leaders lose their core,
And empty hearts demand a little more.
When power masks a void too dark to tell,
The road descends, stone by stone, toward hell.
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Copyright © Peter Moring 2026
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Please ponder on the following story. As if it’s a continuation of the poem above.
**The Chancellor of Purgatory **
In the neon-lit capital of Purgatory, beneath a sky webbed with surveillance drones and flickering propaganda streams, our Chancellor assures us that everything is under control.
He says it often.
The banners hanging from the spires of the Ministry glow with slogans about unity, progress, and collective destiny. Holographic choirs recite the virtues of compliance. Meanwhile, the grid falters, the outer districts ration oxygen, and the old Constitution – once etched in titanium beneath the Westminster floor – has been quietly sealed behind bio-metric locks “for preservation.”
The Chancellor did not seize power in a blaze of conquest. He drifted into it – buoyed by spectacle, outrage cycles, and algorithmic applause. In the early days, he promised to stabilize the fractured union. He spoke of healing the rifts between global elites and surface labourers. He promised fairness, redistribution, and a new dawn calibrated by data.
But power, as we are re-learning, is not the same as authority.
Authority rests on trust. On moral ballast. On a willingness to be constrained by something greater than oneself.
Our Chancellor governs as though such constraints are relics of a primitive age.
His cabinet is a revolving door of ‘loyal ideological bidders’. Entire sectors of the economy have been nationalised under the banner of ‘strategic solidarity’ only to be handed off to favoured consortiums whose pledges align neatly with the Ministry’s doctrine. Lock, stock, and whole industries that generations built are now absorbed into a centralized apparatus that answers not to citizens, but to a tightening circle of ‘apparatchiks’.
He calls it optimization.
Critics call it liquidation.
The free press – what remains of it – has been reclassified as ‘destabilising infrastructure’ Independent guilds are audited into submission. Regional mayors who resist policy directives find their security clearances revoked and their reputations shredded by coordinated disinformation swarms.
Through it all, the Chancellor smiles in augmented broadcasts, his voice soulless, his gaze steady. He frames dissent as sabotage. He frames consolidation as compassion. He frames surrender as strategy.
There is something unnerving about the absence behind his rhetoric. No moral hesitation. No public grappling with unintended consequences. When a food-distribution AI malfunction left three counties in blackout and famine, he described it as a “necessary recalibration.” When veterans of past Wars protested the dismantling of their pension system, he suggested their expectations were “outdated artifacts.”
It is not merely policy that troubles many of us. It is the vacuum. Where voices are ignored at best – Or Silenced!
A leader can be wrong and still be grounded in principle. But what happens when principle itself is negotiable? When loyalty flows only upward? When truth bends to expedience? The result is not governance – it is drift – It is an Oligarchy.
And drift, in any space, is dangerous.
Here was once a beacon! – A messy, argumentative, vibrant democracy that spanned continents and colonies. We were imperfect, but anchored. Now, as assets are consolidated and dissent recoded as deviance, the trajectory feels less like reform and more like descent.
No tyrant ever announces a march toward the abyss. They call it renewal. They call it equity. They call it the future.
But if a nation trades its conscience for comfort, its institutions for immediacy, and its liberty for luminous promises projected across the night sky, it should not be surprised to find the ground giving way beneath its feet and Dystopia appearing ever clearly on the horizon.
The question is no longer whether the Chancellor has power.
The question is whether we remember that, ultimately, WE! DO!
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