“Hell will have millions of wills hating each other forever”

Caesar could brook no superior, as would Pompey no equal’

These of the type, imperator, run mad to be at governing people

Whose heads overstock self-regard in a block, here’s no standing room

But the history books harvester suchlike men, the inexorable years consume

 

No egress delivers their hidebound-haught, nor a root humility

And their liberal allowance of a goodly God, is all expedient utility

By investment’s presents, they ape a fondly forgiving magnanimity

Publishing edicts grandiose; they’re the germens of niggard vanity

 

Dominion bids all their will concert, bear down, and so persever

Forcing towards aggrandisements, to beyond even death’s river;

Fell certain their ludicrous revelries present no bar to Lethe

Whilst counting out honeypot moieties prorogued albeit obliquely

 

Such gooks are to whom we trust ourselves, our very beings,

The Hectoring ombudsmen’s statecrafter reparteeings

Buyers and sellers in stockmarkets dealing future country matters

Men who would have themselves philanthropes, and good-batters

 

The costumes appear all altered, the same old brass orations

Pinning tails on the donkeys so to suit destitute situations

Expending elastic reasoning upon extruded attributions

Wills working up saliencies corrupt, care of the form of words

 

Adding in slants, their havocs angle as judicial truth

Sworn statements at heel well-tethered, underwrite anew

Some dummy idle-notion motions; incident to rudder

Using cable-ties, and sisal strings; and epoxy gum palaver

 

All government aims at, fast maintains, the claims to its accession

That a frame up rule may be done by a fool in his frequent fits of passion,

Add a semblance of trait like a conscionable face to his imposture

And the winds’ welfare blows better blustering clothes than’s lacklustre

 

The game is to say, and to stay at all costs, one is winning

Nor losing; the name’s in the title, possession’s most vital, concerning

A sped Union Address on this knacker’s yard shed mediaeval

Look you tough in a suit standing tall, even when you’re weasel

 

Satisfy happy hands rapping hard marching bands in a tunnel

Where the lights have gone phutt, nonetheless all’s about gloss enamel

Lo, and a roar breaks, and a train’s making shakes: This Convention

Is a coda; moreover, the leader’s last texts got a mention

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