That was a long time ago, his father’s frown:
What difference could it possibly make now?
All the medals on his chest,
The palaces, aeroplanes and yachts,
And fawning courtiers ready to kill for him.
Stepfathered by poverty and shame,
He must punish the enemy,
Avenge the beaten child.
Uncertainty was the killer,
Cruel to a fault, refined through pain,
Homing in on resentments and fears
To exploit for purposes of state;
As if his madness could purge
The mundane madness of all.
Was he not an artist in his field,
His restless hands crafting the masses
Into a voodoo doll?
No-one could touch him now,
Least of all himself.
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