The Emperor of Our Fairytales
The Emperor
hath donned a gewgaw crown,
bedazzled are the throng.
He rides an electric horse.
Strides through the pitiless cities
of lost or last hopes.
His faceless glance
not even a mask,
but a cold premonition
an iron mind
behind bolt-shut eyes.
The crowds back away,
bow and know
they are now subjects,
not even slaves,
only subjects
to be used and disposed of
at the ballot box.
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