Our Robespierre, Our Machiavelli

your power-lust soul reeks,

like the mass-dug graves

likes hands freshly drenched in pedicide

genocide and homicide,

the trail of blood leaves an invisible stain

on your immaculate white babarigas

unseen by all, seen by all

oh tiny tyrant, whom Fate has seemingly nurtured for such a time as this,

what will be your end, you despicable one?

will you die a pauper like Machiavelli,

become a crippled invalid like the loathsome Sergent Rogers, who was dreaded by all at a time

now beaten by life, a shell of his fearsome self,

or will your tiny neck, out of which sprung millions of untruths

grace the guillotine, like Robespierre, the public accuser,

amidst the ecstatic joy of the murderous mob?

Or will fate look the other way and reward your bloodthirsty avarice-filled years filled with gilded rot?

Only time will tell

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