Kangaroo Court

They call it justice, robed in decay,

A cash register gavel slamming lives away.

Not truth on trial - just time and fines,

A balance sheet dressed up as divine.

Once their spotlight latches onto your name,

You’re no longer human - you’re part of the game.

A ledger entry. A quota to meet.

A body to grind beneath polished feet.

Guilty or innocent? Cute little lie.

That question dies the moment you’re priced.

They don’t weigh facts, they don’t hear pleas;

They smell blood, and they smell fees.

Bail is ransom, fines are traps,

Probation’s a leash that always snaps.

Miss one step, one date, one dime;

Congratulations, welcome back to time.

Lawyers trade minutes like stock on a screen,

Judges nod along, impeccably clean.

Prosecutors hunt not justice, but wins,

Feeding careers on cages and sins.

It’s a kangaroo court with a predator’s grin,

Hopping over truth to cash checks in its skin.

A system so hungry it eats its own spine,

Selling the future one sentence at a time.

They swear it’s order. They swear it’s fair.

But fairness doesn’t charge interest or care.

This machine survives by breaking the bone

Of anyone unlucky enough to be thrown.

And the cruelest joke? The punchline’s tight:

They’re dismantling the very thing they claim to uphold;

Eroding trust, erasing belief,

Turning “justice” into organized grief.

So don’t call it broken - broken implies mistake.

This thing works perfectly, make no mistake.

It was built to extract, to brand, to consume,

A factory of ruin with courtroom perfume.

A feast of lives on a paperwork plate,

Where mercy’s dismissed and profit dictates.

Boots on necks, with statutes to bless,

A legal illusion masking systemic mess.

This isn’t law.

It’s legalized hunger.

And everyone who touches it

Leaves missing something they’ll never recover.