I won't come up short again, Falling for clichés and praise, Not now nor till the end of days.
I will not roll my weary eyes, Shut ringing ears to truth-based lies; Click my tongue or act surprised, To the shenanigans of home-grown spies.
I will not throw up my hands, But step close to the deathbed rant, And hear the confessions Of the Select's election; The psalms of prophets Who turned sour, Who get ****** for their greed for power.
I am he for whom you search, my manicure suits the crown. I'm not worthy for such honour, To be a prince or harlequin clown. You'll pardon me, If I misspoke, But you missed the punchline: I'm the joke.
Charles didn't heed the Puritans He was God's appointed, Anointed and empowered. He tumbled from above, Down through the law, Lost his head.
Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt, A cult-like condemnation; So they stood him against the wall, He listed to his Monk, His reasoning debunked, So they shot the anointed one On his golden throne.
Benito was above the law, High on meat hooks. Could we dare to look?
If you were lucky, If you were tied to a stake, And the ******* ignited, Someone dear would tie a bag Of gunpowder around your neck. Why let the crows pick out his eyes, Make golden nests from his hair. End the torture. Pull the life-line. Sever the head from the body politic. It is the righteous thing to do; It is the civil thing to do In pensive state. Rise up from your ashes. It is the kindest cut of all.