almost okay

Pity The Fearless Leader

Chest thumping He shouts, “I do not threaten, I promise.”
The entire world is forced to listen to His blustery noise
His posturing and awkward gestures frozen for all time
In photographs and on film, in oil paint and in bronze

His narrow point of view and misguided opinions are law
“God speaks to Me,” He proclaims, “Tells Me that I am right.”
His God does not tolerate intolerance, His God is an angry one
That speaks to Him in puzzles, reveals truth by way of mystery

“It is not the Government's job to care for the sick, the poor,” He says
“Unless they are part of the Government!” This, to standing applause
In defiance of logic, without regard to His obvious lack of wisdom
They stand to show their support, beat their ignorant hands together

Unflagging faith in His God frees Him from the burden of doubt
That constant voice in the back of the mind that makes a lesser man
Struggle with difficult decisions, forever ponder right versus wrong
No, He forges ahead, secure in the knowledge that His God forgives

In the morning they help Him dress, don His royal robes, His crown
He lingers long at the mirror, sees His God in Himself and smiles
A pair of hands carefully knots His purple tie in a Full Windsor
A simple feat which He cannot accomplish without the help of others

In a room outside His chambers, aides are planning His strategy,
Writing His speeches, formulating His programs, counting His riches
Of it all, He understands His riches best, its currency emblazoned with:
“In God We Trust” it speaks to Him in a special way, a wink, a nod

To a man, His aides agree with Him, support His faith in His God
While silently worshiping their own, holding onto selfish hopes
That some day one of them will get their turn on His throne
They are the first to stand when He speaks, the first to applaud

For dinner He dines on babies' hearts, sauteed in butter with onions
His chalice filled with a mixture of wine and blood wrung from the babies
A second course of roasted baby limbs with rosemary, new potatoes
Blood wine to wash it down, He toasts, “Compliments to the chef!”

At night He goes to bed, sleeps on a high feathered mattress beneath
A quilt of smooth baby skin, squares of brown, yellow, red and beige
Every race present, lovingly stitched together by His Mother's hands
He sees His God in His dreams, sleeps soundly, snores, wets the linen

The next morning He rises, stretches and yawns away the sleep
“God spoke to Me last night,” He tells his aides as they bathe Him
Hums a tune as they towel Him dry, shave His face and comb His hair
Crown upon His head, He smiles and says, “I'm hungry. What's for breakfast?”

-Ye Olde Blowharde