Jun
3
2008
Fare ill, fraudulent 43. Fantastic riddance.
You snuck in the back door, I remember. I was there
when you dodged the front entrance. Whichever door you exit,
let it hit you in the ass.
I trust I express myself simply enough
though it may take you both hands and a short while wandering,
bewildered, before you can grasp it.
While you’re working on that, we’ll lay out the welcome mat
for 44, and pray she will wipe her feet completely
so that no residue of your illegacy is tracked over our streets ever again.
No one could even landfill your shoes.
They would outrank the most toxic refuse manunkind can concoct.
You know where can go? Go check into a roach motel.
Go rot in Texas. May your radioactive halflife glow for another millennium
so that your dim light may finally serve the greater good
as a warning, as the primal example, of the historic low
of what dazzling public dysfunction can reel in
when it casts chum into the sewer
for bottom feeders and sells us the fish story
that even the most tortuous of mutants are keepers.
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