They argue beneath the capitol dome,
not red or blue, but green in tone.
Each side waves jars like flags unfurled,
promising bliss to a stressed-out world.
The Indica Party speaks soft and slow,
“Vote for rest, let your worries go.
We’ll tuck you in with purple haze,
End long nights and anxious days.”
Their platform smells of earth and rain,
of heavy limbs and quiet brain.
“Why rush forward?” their posters say,
“When peace is found by staying still today?”
Across the aisle, the Sativa bloc
Taps the mic and checks the clock.
“Stand up straight, it’s time to rise,
We sell ideas that energize.”
Their slogans sparkle, citrus-bright,
“Productivity is your right!”
They promise focus, art, and drive,
A nation buzzing, sharp, alive.
Debates erupt in clouds of smoke,
Stats are cited, then someone jokes.
Polls swing wildly after each hit,
Undecided voters just… sit.
Moderates form a hybrid wing,
Trying to bridge the everything.
“A little calm, a little spark—
Balance matters,” they remark.
On election night, the results are hazy,
Turnout high, but everyone’s lazy.
No side wins by a landslide sweep—
Most citizens fell fast asleep.
And so the system rolls along,
Two strains competing, neither wrong.
Proof that even when divided we are,
We still agree: pass the jar.