with head floating like an ugly dreg
on a sea of blurred faces, he makes
a mockery of himself; he knows it not
for he is slave to his master’s fate
he thinks he’s got us all in his pocket
that jingles with coins not his own;
he scribbles his master’s imprimatur
whose writ is way beyond his reach
he wears the emperor’s fancy robe
to cover his vault bloated by nightly
trips to strips of lobster and steak -
gluttony has become a frequent treat
he hears not the laughter at his back,
sees not the frown from dark clouds
now hovering, waiting for the season
to turn his crown into a raging storm
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