Is There Any Way Out?
The glee on Our Supreme Leader's face
shone like a huntsman bagging a
rabbit. Oh, those pinchable
chubby cheeks, the teenage
haircut on this forever
adolescent of thirty-three
eliminating enemies like
popping a blackhead.
I have a birds-eye view
of everything, one of
a dozen chambermaids on
his lordly estate. I shuffle
along – born with a club foot - to the tune
of soft military music bringing
a tear to my eye.
Our Leader and his soft-spoken
wife with sparkly eyes summoned
me to the breakfast table. Poured
me tea in a red cup. "There are
treatments now for a foot like
yours," they told me. "It shall
be done. Eventually. Like the
missiles propelled toward our
enemies."
He giggled with his girlish laughter
as he smoothed his stiff brilliantined
hair, a Black Forest Cake.
A fine young man he was, who cried when the
famine killed millions of his people.
His enemies, he knew, were nothing but flies,
tiny fruit flies, that must be flayed.
His ministers bring out the swatters
sneezing as their victims lie smashed and bloodied
on sidewalks, such a sight, gasping for air
in shopping malls in foreign lands, the
country safer, before the next crisis calls.
Pyongyang, what will become of you!
Who will bear our babies, lick our
wounds, tend our gardens, dribble toward
the basket, speak the truth.
Speak the truth. Speak the truth. Speak the truth.
Swat!