Hisses of justice, whispers of peace,

A silver tongue spun in privileged pleas.

It slithers through circles where truth takes a stand,

Extending a cautious and calculated hand.

It speaks of the righteous, it weeps for the lost,

Yet measures its words by what they might cost.

It bends with the breeze, it sways with the tide,

Never too far from either side.

It feigns revolution but whispers retreat,

Plays martyr and savior, but stays on its feet.

It feeds the fire yet quenches the flame,

With crocodile tears, denying the blame.

When cries for justice shake the land,

It offers a smile, a hollow hand.

A friend to the voiceless—until power calls,

Then it slinks to the shadows behind fortress walls.

Beware the serpent with honeyed breath,

That trades in half-truths and deals in death.

For nothing is crueler, nothing more crass,

Than a snake in the garden, a snake in the grass.