He sits atop his throne of corn,
cranium choked to bursting
with bales of inflammable hay
that for want of space sprout
emerging from a tangerine scalp,
floating over a tangerine brow,
shielding his eyes,
from the folly of abandoning
the treaty of ’15.
Oh convoluted crime,
Do not thunder into our lungs
at the behest of a Star Spangled Crown.
Reign in your hurricanes, your blizzards, your storms,
Soothe the seas, lull oceans into a dreamless sleep,
Cup torrents of ice within the palm of your hand,
Pacify the breathless wolves that dance
on blistered feet.
When the air begins to crumble and the rain begins to boil,
You will retreat, having finally learnt,
that our albatrosses are dart boards
and greed, our cardinal sin.
We are the archers.
We are the targets.
We are the war.
And we will never win.