A time comes they beat their gongs in grins and generous palms. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The rattles spread round the city then, we assemble ourselves with starved bellies. Their manifestos unfurl, we see the punctures in them yet we follow because they smear a relief on our never tiring hunger.
After sometime, we become town criers, ones, drenched in tears. We beat our gongs now with bulgy demands Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The media piggybacks the rattles but neglect is the dungeon they fall into.