Old man coughing up blood-flecked rhetoric,
he grasps the podium during a fit of vertigo,
knees buckling from the weight of the auditorium.
Never again will he ascend Mount Washington
or carouse with tortoises along Nicaragua’s littoral.
Made dizzy by the rollercoaster of peristalsis
pitted by enzymes that jet from every crevice
excusing himself for elbowing a rude membrane,
still recognized by his indigestible spectacles,
from deep inside its bowels he vows to fight the Beast.
Foul winds propel the lumpen into action,
demands for self-determination animate the mob;
swept along the dank corridors of power,
exulting in their capture of vacant offices,
they rush blindly towards the pitiless eye.
Who will save the candidate from this horrid fate?
Will the extraction team arrive before it’s too late?
Finding no tunnel left to insert a kink,
no fistula for sanctuary, no prolapse in store,
the Panopticon views history as mostly a bore.
With her golden bedpan the head nurse
rushes to the rescue. Submit or be flushed!
Due to budget cuts she dresses his wounds
with toilet wad but nonetheless he is grateful.
On that very same day the rebellion is crushed.
Source