Year Five
So, here we are again it seems,
another year gone by,
the power brokers played their pawns
and saved Nouveau Versailles:
the same Dear Leader, same Dread King,
same Ruling Class awry;
and since you have not gone away,
in good faith, how could I?
So, your birthday's today you claim?
For farce sake, I'll allow.
As such, “Which gift is most befit?”
becomes the question now.
What best to give a Marxist brat
unchecked by law or vow,
if not the spanking of his life?
But still, alas, there's “How?”.
A child spoil'd sees everything
as being theirs to break.
Still, our Congress won't tell you “No!”
and their own pull forsake.
Worse still, our Brass claims their Oath Sworn
if applied's a mistake.
So, your ill will is all that's free
and we ride out its wake.
Corrected not you tantrum on,
clenched fists and stamping feet,
vengefully making scapegoat those
with whom you can't compete,
into the cornfield wishing those
defying your deceit.
So, Dear Leader, don't start to think
we'd shirk your “birthday” treat.
It's clear there'll be no Cicero
to rise to our defense,
no Washington to do his job
and treason trials commence.
Forsaken, we're all John Galts now
sans storyline pretense.
So, know: your gift's that “Atlas Shrugged”
is now our “Common Sense”.
Go demagogue about Detroit,
your future's gift-wrapped snug.
Insist you're King Philosopher
despite the doom you've dug.
Ignore the Voices rising up
against your regime smug:
“‘By my life and my love of it’,
I will not kneel, I'll shrug!”
Yes, I withdraw my sanction full,
my engine I unplug:
Happy Birthday, O Dear Leader,
I will not kneel, I'll shrug.
“I'm leaving it as I found it”,
I will not kneel, I'll shrug.
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