planet, parched, distressed, and just done with it.
An old man sits in his palace,
obsessed with his image,
and his delusions of destiny that hold no density.
His ears are as big as his ego,
but he cannot hear the cries of crushed subjects.
His party might be mandatory,
but he can’t force the hearts of the nation to open to him,
or the footsteps of death to stop following him.
God screens his calls,
yet he yearns for what he believes he deserves,
still holding onto the childish tales of all the things that make him so special.
It was all so easy for the son he threw to the wolves,
and the mother that is barely buried,
but people just aren’t in the mood to be reigned over,
and that… really annoys him.
Desperate for adoration,
he refuses to kneel,
but pleads with the Lord’s answering machine.
Messages are seen but are never responded to,
because the lambs are lost,
and God is sick of saying the same thing to entitled, incest nepo babies with delusions of grandeur.
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