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El apático

(With thanks to Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I met a traveller from a future time

who said: two small and stunted hands of stone

lie in the desert, the fingers short and fine.

Half sunk, a weathered head, a sun-bleached dome,

the orange skin long faded to dilute piss,

is also there, the candyfloss hair all gone

save for a strand or two, the merest wisp.

Sat on the head is a Mexican, he smokes and yawns.

Look! You can see him on my screen.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

“My name is Orangemandias, king of kings.

Look on my works, ye Mexicans, and despair!

I will build a great wall – and nobody

builds walls better than me, believe me.

I will build a great, great wall

on our southern border, and I will make

Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”

Nothing beside remains, not one stone

upon another, just cacti and miles of sand.

The Mexican takes a piss, then checks his phone.

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Bravo!

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