Silly, and bordering on juvenile.
Regardless, it's the truth.
Show me what a Man will kill or die for and I will show you what he believes in and cares about. Show me what a Man will neither kill nor die for and I will show you what he neither believe in nor cares about.
But that's not your way is it, young lady? No. You and yours will smile, bat your eyes, and sell your immortal souls in the attempt to win an election. You are whatever you think someone wants you to be rather than being honest about anything. Scheming, Misinformation, Misdirection, and Subterfuge are your tools. You scream "Thief!" and point at your accomplice when the Master arrives while concealing the greater part of the loot in the folds of your own skirt.
The only means to fix what is wrong with this country is going to be a total re-formatting of the system. A full wipe of the hard drive and installation of an updated operating system. One which does not make the same mistakes as the old one.
I get it....I know exactly what you're trying to say, but E.A. Robinson said it first, and better:
Miniver Cheevy by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
I love poetry, too!