An idiot of iconic proportions;
Draped in a personal version of the world,
Guiltless and gilded with tobacco filaments,
Though one that appears to be in terminal decline,
Resigned to meltdown; morally wallowed in bleach.
Stretching the bonds of honesty beyond
Tolerance, and following deceit with fleetness.
A house covered with such a pile of clothes, as
Though she’s been washing for the lines in town;
Haggling for a pound of apples, as if a penny rescued
Will be conversation enough to save us from insolvency.
And when I have to climb in through
A bedroom window, and battle with her hatter of
A mother backing up in stereo, and call for referees,
Then I think it’s time to cancel our balance.
Attempts to lecture me will fall, spit
Pips will fly, and I’ll try not to
Baulk at the thought of fascist states berating
Or assassinated presidential debates.