What is another word for citizen in a Mitt Romney Administration?

It matters not who is “publically” in charge of this country as long as the FED behind the scenes is “actually” in charge……….so here are some poems to express a reaction to the question at large…………even if they are a tad late…………..

Ship of the night, which rules the seas, and makes
the trade winds blow, comes in, to port, when it
deems fit, with bells we’ve come to know. It takes
and gives with rip tide force, with sails so fit

and trim. Its till’ is set for tack and speed
with signs and flags so grim. Its crew are ghosts
from time long gone, though like a swarm they feed
on all who live and breathe and strive: white hosts

who flaunt their greed. Their time with coins is all
they dream; they tax each fare they claim. With chains
and rings they keep their pets, who sweat through gall
and game. They goad all slaves to praise their gains,

to strive and match their rank. They flog and thank
those ones who yield, and worst what walks the plank.

I know I’m free. My chains are gone. I come
and go at will. There are no debts, or pay-
day threats, I do not need a pill. I sum
my life with streets and walks; my time is way

too clear. My bench and park, are mine at dark,
I have no dreams to fear. I go to church
for lunchtime feasts, I tend them like a shark.
My friends are bugs and rats and thugs who search

what makes life spark. We all have time, but not
a dime; we wait for what comes next. Life has
no rules for last time fools, there’s no such lot
or text. Each day the sun and rain are as

the best gifts that are free. But though I see
I’ve passed life’s tests, I want fine Scotch and Brie.

Church and state are sweet goats in heat, and wed
when times get strange. With truth and lies, they’ll close
your eyes; they think you’ll cheer each change. They’ve bred
their dupes and pawns in droves to fend off foes

with qualms. Their shtick is feigned and planned world wide
as banks fund wars and bombs. They fix all News
from all sides now, so all views preach their side;
each dance and tune masks like the moon, so choose

which wreck to ride. It all ends up with loss
as king, in dearth and death and waste. Your heart
and mind will one day find all life’s a cross
you’ve faced. To be here is to be God’s art:

hung framed with nails and wire. So join the choir
and sing in pain and know you’re loved with fire.

Who would be king of this mole hill, I gaze
at from my stoop? There must be one with grace
and skill who’ll rise from this failed group. It pays
to be that lone blank face, that one rare ace

of hearts. The lights and glare that come with fame
are worth those News room darts; to kiss the poor
and tend the rich, to be a house hold name,
it would be great to save the Earth, Al Gore

sure knows this game. But who can pull that sword
from stone, and rate what gods would prize? There must
be one not quite for sale, who’s charmed the lord
of flies, whose deals for votes breed checks of trust,

that make the Free Press proud, who looms a cloud,
of kin and mob, and spreads “dreams” through the crowd.

I’m Mitch McDeere and Sisyphus with rock
in boat at sea, where swells are hills and storms
are days and ports are not for me. The stock
I need for what keeps boats afloat conforms

with skills, that may have no regard for sails,
or help who bails and tills. I steer in ways
that skirt disasters, seek less traveled trails,
avoid the pirates, tourists, traders, blaze

amongst the whales. The sea stays calm for kelp
like me who floats and drifts along, and plies
a trade that’s yet unmade, and offers help
that’s wrong. Prometheus would shelter sighs

and shake his head in tears, through days and years
all chronicled from empty silent piers.