Republican Jesus is summoned to Trump Tower, part 1.
The message was plain
'Be There!'
& Republican Jesus
knowing quite well
which side of the bread
his butter was on sprang
abjectly into action,
calling up young Fitzroy
his at-home, on-call & quite
the dandy fancy man,
so splendidly liveried
& be-ribboned chauffeur,
Republican Jesus donned his
favourite gold lame cape,
an assumed nod to Joseph
& his many-colored coat,
but more to the fawning Liberace
& the empty husk that was old Elvis,
he of super dazzling & oh so mighty
US cultural fame.
Republican Jesus's limousine
had tinted windows & hanging
pine-forest scent,
a shield of sorts from the world outside,
for that world vexed & troubled him,
but fear not,
only mildly,
to be truly,
truly,
honest.
His soft & oh so precious behind
rested gently on the finest
of crushed velvet cushions,
his delicate manicured hand
lay poised by the window,
for though he abhorred
the hoi-polloi of New York's
teeming dirty streets
he would on occasion
raise a weary limp wrist
to random passers-by
in the style preferred
by the older Queen of England,
slightly touching but yet
oh so very distant.
He wondered to himself
as he neared that place,
that mighty Tower,
that huge & glittering
so utterly glorious edifice
that just simply radiated
& desperately oozed
veritably discharged
rank wealth, indecency,
& the emptiness of death in
life's dull yet seemingly comforting
sweet ice cold embrace.
Why oh why had he been summoned?
For what?
Oh how he tingled & shivered,
& by God how was he so deserving?
& he wondered just why
& how could he be so blessed
this very day & so ...
how shall I say
... privileged.
