Year Six
A crisis grips Nouveau Versailles
each time this day draws near,
Dear Leader's birthday means their
tribute has come due this year.
So, the question they wrestle with
as brows knit and hands wring:
“What does one get the tyrant who
now has got ev'rything?”
He's got a pen, and telephone,
and lockstep slavish press,
and jackboot tax collecting hordes,
and cowardly congress,
and ivy legion sausages,
and children singing hymns,
and taxpayers who have no choice
but fund his marxist whims.
He's got a party of scorched earth,
and hollywood in swoon,
as terrorist or loon,
and business cronies “playing ball”,
and generation theft,
and hundred flowers Internet...
so what is really left?
Perhaps the sword that chávez stole
from Simón Bolívar,
or a new flag with red, gold stripes,
with sole soviet star,
or in each town a statue raised
of our dear leader's form,
or a brand new allegiance pledge
to this, the “new world” norm?
Ideas plentiful abound
if they would only try:
if they'd just cast an eye.
But let them fret original,
I won't make that attempt -
my gift's the same as ev'ry year:
my not-kneeling-contempt.
Yes, once again, a little verse,
words Country Class unkempt -
Happy Birthday, O Dear Leader:
card, box, bow, and contempt.
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