In the land where democracy's banners wave,
Two candidates step up, neither brave nor grave.
In twenty-twenty-four's heated electoral race,
Both lacking in substance, both out of place.
The donkey, old and weary, stumbles on stage,
Clumsy in stance, lost in its own maze.
Promises hollow, words without weight,
Struggling to articulate a clear mandate.
The orangutan, wild, with a colorful flair,
Leaps without looking, utterly unaware.
Ideas scattered like leaves in the wind,
A jumble of notions, poorly pinned.
On debate floors, they awkwardly stand,
Mistakes after blunders, nothing goes as planned.
The donkey trips over its own spoken word,
The orangutan's speeches, absurdly absurd.
Voters watch with a mix of dismay and jest,
Wondering how these became the best of the best.
In town halls and forums, the spectacle grows,
As each inept moment embarrassingly shows.
Election Day dawns, a choice to be made,
Between the unsteady and the wildly unswayed.
A sigh in the booth, a reluctant pen stroke,
For leaders unqualified, it's almost a joke.
Yet, this is the dance of democracy's song,
Where sometimes the steps go utterly wrong.
The donkey and orangutan, in a comical plight,
In the great political theater, an unfortunate sight.
In a chamber where debates fiercely flare,
An elephant's presence hangs in the air.
Silent and grand, in the room, it stands,
A metaphorical giant in political lands.
Yet, beyond the walls, unseen in the fray,
An orangutan watches, hidden away.
Absent in form, but present in thought,
In the tangle of discourse, it's subtly sought.
The elephant, a symbol, robust and clear,
Casts a shadow long, in the room so near.
Its silence speaks volumes, in the heated room,
A ponderous presence, amidst debate's boom.
The orangutan, though out of the sight,
Its spirit lingers in the political night.
A quiet observer, from afar it views,
The tumultuous scene, the varying hues.
Together they dwell in this curious dance,
One present, one absent, both left to chance.
The elephant in the room, solid and true,
The orangutan not, a hidden view.
In the realm of debate, where words are a tool,
Their presence and absence playfully rule.
A duo of metaphors, distinct yet akin,
In the art of politics, silently they spin.
