I'm not dead ....

I have a nasty chest infection, with a head cold, earache, arthritis and nasty temper and I find it difficult to concentrate so I'm sticking with shorts, fanfiction and poetry at the moment.  And I wanted to loose my tongue on some target or other, and politicians of all stamps presented themselves as worthy of being scapegoats.
The Pindaric ode form has 3 stanzas in the form of thesis, antithesis and synthesis, called properly trophe, antitrophe and epode but it's all Greek to me.  Argument, counter-argument, conclusion suits me well enough.  This one turned out in iambic pentameter but so long as each couplet agrees both with itself and with the corresponding couplet in each stanza, it doesn't have to be any particular length. 

Pindaric Ode to Politicians

Let us now blame famous men

Who fuck us left and right again

Whose egos overgrow, and take

The plunge into each new mistake.

They make each goal political

Or filled with gold for old school pal

And when things then go well awry

They weep and claim how hard they try.

Should we then feel it is their fault?

For who begat each famous dolt?

Did they not from the system rise

Encouraged then to seize the prize

Of glory unadulterated?

(Or lots of loot, at any rate!)

When they have served for their desire

And with a handshake gold, retire.

And yet the system is enshrined

By the insane who lead the blind

They practise by the golden rule:

He with gold gains ultima thule

Which gives inalienable right

To be the most infernal blight

And be the one whose growing fame

Gives him the right to bear the blame.