He thrived in a paradise of assassins,
His failures, unfelt and fleeting.
Only self-proclaimed wins
Kept his errant heart beating.
He never built anything,
Nor completed fickle task.
He could only imagine,
Then shout, then bask.
He inserted triumph’s cock
Into fame’s purchased pussy
To prove that he had plenitude—
Not too small, not too wussy.
Was it only the alternative
Of a woman with a burden
That threw fickle choice
Towards a fate so uncertain?
On that day our father died
Dictating a dark legacy.
The crowds were quite meager
For an assassins’ jubilee.
“What now? What do we do?”
Ask the growing number.
How can we awake
From this nightmare’s slumber?
If we ever come to,
Will opinions be a crime?
Will the news be banished?
Will there still be time?
A paradise of assassins,
Each with their prey,
The fitting sequel
Of a past made of clay.
