Townhall on the hill

Nobody cared how this town hall looked one hundred years ago.
Nostalgia only comes in the form of football or slum go go.
The high trees surrounding the building make the hill breeze slow.
 
Each morning shoes on, to where the council flies.
Standing in lines everyone of us with a manifesto of lies.
 
Inside the tedious wait for attendance creates a fuss.
There´s a rifle named peachy aimed at each of us.
As we trade nicities and meaningless signed sheets.
Awkward introductions as semi-smiles and semi-frowns meet.