Random genetics fling me a brat.
I muss up dinner, they export potential
diners to Egypt for torture and clean plates –
my palate’s got a bad taste in it – in the tradition of our reign.

Opulent, sinister, and cold,
where’s the bling in that? It’s all mannerisms.
What are the effects of expression of oppression in a language the people
understand?

What’s wrong with you people? Hold hands.
My harbinger flip flops in morse code:
“I’m sorry. I said I’d protect
the United States, and look at this mess, my words

“work like chants
my darn boots fitted backward
better. I say smack them down,
the decider I am.”