No Kings

You’re a money-mongering, military parade-wanting, road manager for hard-rocking autocrats.

A nuke that’s up to no good, humorless as a googol of out-of-tune ukes.

Immigrants and those you despise are swept up by your henchman and disappeared in the blink of oblivion’s eye.

You’re unstable as a bible of vertigo blues, a lame–dancing “macho man“ in gestapo shoes.

A hurricane impregnator, a bitcoin and snake-oil trading traitor.

You’re an anti-Reich orgone box of spontaneous fascism.

Your breath reeks of a national guardsman‘s tear gas.

You and your unbaptized haphazardry. Your aura has been spit-shined by the anti-divine,

and you ain’t no king of mine.