by Nick Gisburne
We won’t believe the emperor is dead
Until we watch his bloated body burn.
His poison, all the filth that we were fed,
Must never be permitted to return.
We waited as we watched the cancer grow,
But even in his sickness he was strong.
The first of those who dared to tell him no
Were traitors, cowards. Crooks, he called them. Wrong.
His arrogance dismantled what we built,
A reputation stained, dishonoured, lost.
He died without a single grain of guilt.
Without him we, the people, count the cost.
His legacy contaminates the past.
At least the world is rid of him, at last.
