Fidel, your coffin passes by
and the mad money men of America
are praising your death
as they strangle Syrian children.
They claim you killed your own, Fidel,
instead of teaching them to read
or shooting them with free vaccines
meant to keep gold
from growing in their minds.
They tried to stab you
with your own shrapnel
over six hundred times,
and it’s impressive
that you never fell over.
A business man talks
of liberating Cuba
in your absence, Fidel.
I sit in my studio apartment
that I pay a thousand dollars
a month for and I wonder
how long before the rebel flag
is draped across your casket
and your beard declared
our 51st state.
Puerto Rico is broke
and surely someone kneels
before the Lincoln memorial
and prays for guidance
in how to take over an island.
Step 1: Flash the people your money.
Step 2: Build them a hotel
they’ll never stay in.
It’s going to be a big tragedy, Fidel,
on the day the bulldozers arrive
to demolish your memorial
to make way for that new golf course.
But no one can stop a bullet
fired from Uncle Sam’s gun.
Just ask Iraq, Afghanistan,
and Honduras.
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