It's the bolsheviks & their blackmailed freemasonaries. They work with international traffickers.
In the land of ballots cast, where hopes ignite,
We dance to the rhythm, the illusion of right.
With a scribble of ink, we think we decide,
But shadows in silence pull strings with each stride.
Behind the bright banners and fervent debates,
A web of deception intricately waits.
Child brides in corners with eyes wide and keen,
Count whispers of power that linger unseen.
The choice that we cherish, a mirage in the mist,
As whispers of cults intertwine and persist.
In chambers of privilege, their voices resound,
While the echoes of truth are forever unbound.