This phony warrior’s armed to the teeth,
our barks and his bites all but synchronized,
the son of a bitch—I mean of a state
that doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t love.
Dash upstairs—praise to the skies
what might fall on us if it isn’t in them,
yours no future money couldn’t buy,
or, failing that, at least destroy.
Do me this favour, and, in exchange,
I’ll mask ingratitude, a disguise
overwhelming plain truths any day—
it looks like somebody, and so do I,
most at home in another’s skin
among parasites, in another’s thoughts,
yours for example. Come on—admit:
you think about me often, cannot stop.