I don't want to play your game.
It's too savage even for Ghenghis
Khan.
You pillaged the hordes and raped
all the young men.
The town square is overrun with
the odor of your sweat.
Sailors are standing vigil outside
your door.
Waiting for the scarlet signal.
The town whores have all moved to
another state.
Leaving behind their white corsets
marked
with blood.
I don't want to play your game.
It's too anonymous even for a male.
Your silicone smile has a thin razor
edge.
A paper cut that digs in with a
viral fang.
Eating flesh slowly inside my gut.
The emergency room doctors have
your name on file.
There is no insurance for your disease.
I don't want to play your game.
It's too intricate even for the
autistic savant.
You broke all the trojan horses
of all the king's men.
They are now stacked as firewood
outside the village gate.
The town criers bypass the street
where you live.
Remembering all the trauma of your
bloody crimes.
I don't want to play your game.
It's too violent for PG-14.
The palace guards are swallowing
cyanide,
when told of your wedding train.
Even Mao Tse Tung is celebrating
your demise,
in the Great Congress of the People.
Only the village idiot is standing
outside your door,
returning the invitation for your
nightly game.
I don't want to play your game.
It's got no rules and you hide all
the pawns.
The Barbarians would have left town
long ago,
sacrificing their young in your
name.
Left standing only a forwarding
address,
where once they proudly hailed.
This is a game no man can win.
Raise the white flag and let's retreat
to Hunan.
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