Mirrored by his shadow
he walks among us
with doctrines of passionate sabotage
in a black backpack
crammed with the blues
of a kid who missed
our list of party people
when we—I guess—blinked
(and now he thinks our party
stinks like a cigar stub
stuck in the smirk
of a plutocrat baron
pissing on a mess
dropped from a towering penthouse)—
so he plots our crash
and maps our fall
and waits—and what
an enemy we’ve made
by blinking,
and forgetting to call!
.
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