The incorrigible sycophants clap
their wrinkled hands and I won’t

pretend that calamity can be
averted. The President has at last

constructed sentences with good syntax
signifying something to the effect of

sabres rattling or bugles polished
to announce the onslaught; and I won’t

deny the deleterious import
of the Texan’s contrived eloquence. This

heralds, to begin with, more insomnia
instigated by the conflation of memory

and premonition. The drums
are surely being bashed and I won’t

even attempt blocking my ears when
my eyes simmer beneath the blindfolds

and I can’t sleep. He must’ve received
elocution lessons and the expertise

of an ‘innovative’ speech writer. Now
my native land transcends an ‘axis of evil’

to perch on a nuclear fault line. The bombs
may fall, ‘my people’ go off like firecrackers

in the crystal-clear dreams that keep me
awake, animated by the words of the Emperor

who now blurts with commendable grammar
about the oncoming war.