Her pine box sits on the left side of the cobwebbed
shadowed mansion’s white sheet furniture covered dining room
in the middle of Urbania,
high on a hill overlooking poor, non-working, yet capable, “victims”
with canisters of food stamps and $300 cell phones.
She sucks their blood dry and keeps them all high by blaming the rich
manufacturing cell phones and making old folks cry with tales of
Aunt Care and Uncle Caid, and reading poor orphans fables from,
Marx’s Concept of Man.
“Vote for me,” she howls at the crescent shaped pot-faced moon,
“and you won’t have to work again
because we are going to steal all the money we can
from Mr. and Mrs. Pharmaceutical that keeps you all alive,
and then spread their wealth among us.”
“But let’s keep the Iranians uranium rich,”
she whispers with blood trickling from the left side of her
bluish lips and stained fangs,
“and pretend we don’t see the dragon and tiger playing war games
as they count billions of debt
and smoke opium from fields watered in western blood.”
She licks her lips, living in Urbania, high on a hill, overlooking her
blood drained slaves.