A Squealer

A poem based on Animal farm, by George Orwell

The prince of polished lies,
A glinting gaze, singing twisted cries.

You spun the truth, just like some thread
That you stitched up, and filled their heads.

Your tongue, like honey laced with rot.
Made them cheer for what was not.

“Less food?” They’d shout,
“Makes us stronger, without a doubt!”

You wagged your tail, you pranced and spoke,
And made hunger and hell feel like hope.

You pigs grew fat, while their bones shown,
Yet you declared our progress grown.

With every speech, you changed minds,
Rules and hope were redefined.

You rewrote laws, redrew the past;
The truth itself was gone at last.

“Snowballs a traitor” You made them yell,
Yet deep inside, they’d weep and wail.

Comfort dulled you moral core;
A silk lined bed, a bolted door.

Each lie you spoke, each tale you spun,
Shot revolution out the gun.

You were their tongue through thin and thick,
You were in power, like the bolsheviks.

While they toiled through sleet and heat,
You dined in calm and silken sheets.

You spoke the voice of all their pain,
Yet never touched by blood or rain.

In the end, you got all dressed,
You climbed through speech and not success.

A capitalist in a social mask,
The best-grade wine did you bask.

Now generations may forget
The blood behind your red doublet.

A friend to all, a foe to few;
A real Squealer, that was true.