A form of government in which the country is considered a public matter, not the private concern or property of the rulers, and in which supreme power is held by the people and their elected representatives, and which has an elected or nominated president rather than a monarch.
After the king was gone, the people finally felt free. They knew their leaders should serve them, not own them like property. Now, their voices would choose who ruled, making it a true republic, where everyone's well-being was the main concern, not just a ruler's greed.
The council argued fiercely. "This isn't about our families!" one shouted, slamming a fist on the worn table. "This entire settlement is a republic. The land belongs to all of us, not just the ones with the loudest voices. We choose our leaders; they don't just take."
The townsfolk gathered, tired of the old king's greedy ways. They wanted their opinions heard, their votes to matter. This new idea of a republic, where the country belonged to everyone and leaders were chosen by the people, felt like a breath of fresh air after years of oppression.
In our silly republic, everyone gets a say, even Barry the badger who wants more nuts. It's not just the bossy king's toy; it's for all of us! We pick who runs things, and they're supposed to listen, not just hoard the royal biscuits.
Our grand pickle republic thrives because no single dill overlord claims its brine. Everyone, from the tiniest gherkin to the largest kosher, votes for who gets to be the Head Briner. It's a spicy system where folks decide, not some sour old monarch obsessed with cucumbers.
No one person owned the land or dictated laws for personal gain. This was a republic, where the people's voices, through their chosen representatives, held the true power, not a king or queen. Everyone shared in the nation's fate.
After the collapse of the old guild system, the surviving artisans debated their future. They rejected the hereditary rule of the Master Silversmiths, who had treated the workshops as their personal kingdom. Instead, they voted for a new republic, where power belonged to all members and their chosen delegates, guided by an elected Guild Leader.
The villagers huddled, sharing the last of their dried roots. For generations, they had answered only to the Sky-King, his will absolute. Now, they whispered of a new way, a republic, where their voices, not some distant ruler’s whim, would decide their fate, where resources belonged to everyone, not just the powerful.
Our nation, a grand republic, means the country belongs to everyone, not just some king lounging around. It's a place where we, the people, boss things around through folks we pick. So no more fancy crown-wearers demanding our lunch money – just elected folks, probably still arguing about pizza toppings.
Our town council, much to Brenda's dismay, operates as a true republic. Every decision, from the bizarre pineapple-on-pizza ban to the annual llama parade route, is debated by elected citizens, ensuring no single overlord (or particularly vocal badger enthusiast) dictates public affairs. It's a messy, glorious system where everyone's opinion, however questionable, gets a say.
The citizens finally achieved their dream. No longer would a single family dictate their lives; the nation was a public endeavor, not a royal inheritance. They elected representatives to govern, ensuring the people's voice truly mattered in this new republic.
The colonists, weary of distant dictates, declared their land a republic. No longer would a king’s whim dictate their fate; the power, they vowed, belonged to them, exercised through representatives chosen by the populace, ensuring their collective interests, not a singular ruler's, were paramount.
The colonists finally cast off the king's rule, weary of his arbitrary decrees. They sought a different path, a system where the nation belonged to everyone, not just one person. This new republic meant their voices, through elected delegates, would shape their future, a monumental shift from inherited power.
Our fledgling republic boasted a parliament that was, shall we say, enthusiastically democratic. Every village elder felt entitled to a say in everything, from soup recipes to international diplomacy. It was a glorious, if occasionally chaotic, testament to the notion that a country is a public matter, not a dictator's gilded cage, with power residing with the populace and their elected, albeit often bewildered, representatives.
In the esteemed republic of Gleep Glorp, the citizens, a collection of sentient, fuzzy dust bunnies, govern themselves. Their elected leader, a particularly fluffy specimen named Bartholomew, ensures no dust mite dares to claim the nation as personal property, for the land belongs to all the hopping fluffballs.
The protestors yearned for a genuine republic, a nation where their collective will, not the capricious dictates of an autocrat, would dictate their destiny. They envisioned a system where governance was a public trust, accountable to the populace and their chosen delegates, free from hereditary privilege.
The delegates convened, their faces etched with the gravity of their task, determined to forge a republic where the common good superseded all personal avarice. This new framework would ensure governance remained a public trust, not a monarch's dominion, with power residing truly with the populace and their chosen stewards.
The council debated heatedly, their faces etched with the weight of responsibility. This was no king's decree; their actions dictated the very essence of the republic, a nation where the populace, not a solitary sovereign, held ultimate dominion. Every vote, every pronouncement, affirmed that the state was a collective undertaking, not the patrimony of a privileged few, with an elected leader guiding their shared destiny.
In this peculiar republic, the esteemed populace, unburdened by sovereign whim, indisputably wields paramount authority. Governors, far from being regal potentates, are merely elected custodians of public weal, their tenures precarious as a squirrel's nut hoard. This arrangement ensures the country remains a communal endeavor, not the squalid privy of some autocrat.
In our grand, albeit slightly bewildering, republic, the paramount principle dictates that the nation's fate is a communal undertaking, not the capricious plaything of despots. Power, therefore, resides with the populace and their chosen delegates, ensuring no single autocrat, nor their corpulent poodle, dictates the commonwealth's trajectory.
Normal — Everyday words worth reinforcing.