The candidate can’t contain his glee:
the people have spoken, he is anointed.
A reporter remarks on his populist appeal.

Populist, populous, populares, vox populi vox Dei.
People, We the People, just plain folks.

Our desires summoned him,
we believed he was truly ours,
ours to command.
He wears the worker’s ragged jacket,
rolls up his sleeves, just one of the guys.
We’re all the same, he tells us.
His words mirror our thoughts,
he reminds us of our terror
as he promises to deliver us, 
to satisfy our craving.

We’ve had this dream before.
The populists wore the people’s face.
Peron, Chavez, Long, Wallace.
Our creations.
I’m just like you, they shouted. 
Your voice has been ignored too long. 
Blame the others, the outsiders, 
they’ve taken what’s yours.

The people demanded their due. 

Nights of broken glass,
we hear the smash of clubs,
the snap of bones as they break.
Victorious, his mask is lifted, 
he doesn’t need the people’s face now.
The people have spoken,
Vox populi vox Dei
our new god speaks with fire, 
wears a brown shirt, wears a white hood.