by Nick Gisburne
The Primus is identified with chance,
By silver beads and sapphires as they fall.
Commanding serendipity to dance,
The prize empowers he who takes it all.
A hundred infants enter; one remains;
A sacrifice their surrogates embrace.
The ninety-nine unfavourable brains
Are scattered by the Magistrates of Grace.
In four and twenty seconds he will speak,
Infused indoctrinations now complete.
Although his suckling body may be weak,
His voice conveys unshakeable conceit.
“My people! I am Primus! I am now!
Can someone wipe my arse, or show me how?”
