PRESIDENT GAS
"Get these dead bodies off my racetrack!"
- Cathal Coughlan, _Only Losers Take The Bus_
_Morituri te salutant_, President
Fremont, Ferris F., duly wheeled out
for public delectation / defecation
w/ faeces-flinging where appropriate.
Salut, Mister President!
Is it your knees
now or your titties you
are in it up to? Perhaps
somewhere in between? It's bracing,
isn't it, that first clench
of the tide about the testes?
_Morituri_ - let me spell it out:
the soon-to-die, those whom your sovereign self
has chosen for that honour. Election
by default: you chose us all in choosing
those who should be spared; that few
who patronized your boyhood - whose place
at your right hand, assuring, is assured.
No God of abnegation, your protector,
your strength and shield: foreign-sounding
_kenosis_ not the raiment of your office.
See yourself therefore as dead somewhere inside,
a dry bowl where lubricious sin once plashed
its fountain. Say that your redeeming Christ
has laid all that to rest;
then what of Him is risen in its place?
Still, _te salutant_, of necessity:
as one salutes audacity; or, wearily,
the sheer persistence of untrammelled folly.
We will go under some time before you do,
saluting as the turds float by our nostrils.
(The smell of each man's shit is sweet to him).
To you, are turds and corpses not alike,
evacuations from the hallowed grove
your fathers tended? No, don't answer that.
--
Shall we be pure or impure? Today
we shall be very pure. It must always
be possible to contain
impurities in a pure way.
--Tarmo Uustalu and Varmo Vene
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