Somewhere in Kansas...
Written while on the road.
Posted at dinner (late).
Continuing the tradition, for our Dear Leader.

Enjoy, or not.


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Happy Birthday, O Dear Leader, Year Six

(What's left?)

A crisis grips Nouveau Versailles
each time this day draws near,
Dear Leader's birthday means their
tribute has come due this year.
So, one question they wrestle with
as brows knit and hands wring:
“What does one get the tyrant who
now has got everything?”

He's got a pen, and telephone,
and lockstep slavish press,
and jackboot tax collecting hordes,
and cowardly congress,
and ivy legion sausages,
and children singing hymns,
and taxpayers who have no choice
but fund his marxist whims.

He's got a party of scorched earth,
and hollywood in swoon,
and half our People demonized
as terrorist or loon,
and business cronies “playing ball”,
and generation theft,
and hundred flowers Internet...
so what is really left?

Perhaps the sword that chávez stole
from Simón Bolívar,
or a new flag with red, gold stripes,
with sole soviet star,
or in each town a statue raised
of our dear leader's form,
or a brand new allegiance pledge
to this, the “new world” norm?

Ideas plentiful bound
if they would only try:
utopian graveyards abound
if they'd just cast an eye.
But let them fret original,
I won't make that attempt -
my gift's the same as ev'ry year:
my not-kneeling-contempt.

Yes, once again, a little verse,
words Country Class unkempt -
Happy Birthday, O Dear Leader:
card, box, bow, and contempt.

Happy Birthday, O Dear Leader, Year Six; Copyright © 2014 Papa Possum