With spices fair and summer's bloom,
The wise chefs craft their dishes boon.
A dash of dazzle, taste's delight,
Their canvas bears the season's light.

In '45, the year of dread,
The choice before us: lives or dread.
Should we unleash the demon's might,
Or spare them from atomic night?

An election fraught with despair,
Democratic crisis in the air.
Who shall lead us through the storm,
With truth and justice as our norm?

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur