The people are confused. The actor dictator
has made sure war is what everyone wants.
Each side cheers for war by turns. We
call out fools in ways that make us fools
because the secrecy of the theater plot
shames both sides to such a degree
neither Christians nor dogs can ever be free.
What chorus was that? It said, “Yoko and me?”
No one is sure who fired the shot.
O permanent drag queen high on the cross,
who did you secretly lust for? Was it me?
Or you, not being yourself? Satire is at a loss;
this is the worst savior I have ever seen—
those who should be shocked are the least aghast
and what is my name doing in the cast?
I did everything to avoid the stage.
Children playing old people pull on things
which spoil every scene. Costumes make us kings
of nothing. Elvis and the Beatles are a mess.
You made fun of sacred music; now your idols fall.
You loved. You cried. You loved. Expertise
with no remorse, is all, in the end.
The executive producer treats the leaves.
Your reflected image wants to be your friend.