All the president’s men.

All the president’s men.

There is a devil in you

Not a vampire

And yet maybe so

Drawing blood

Wherever you go

From the innocent doe

With the soft skin

The one with her foot

In the glass slipper

The vestal virgin

The unwilling stripper

She would try to run

Only to fall for you

The devil in Pravda

Or the New York Times

Torturing the masses

Filling up the graves

Pouring in the blood

You demanded for your supper

To scupper

The enemy within your court

So easily bought

With a silver bullet

They tell such attractive tales

Given half a chance

To preach

Their tittle is a tattle

Full of propaganda

For the acolytes

With one eye on the victory

And another on the prize.

There is always a headline

To be written

Another to be made

It is the devil in you.

The sticky layer of entitlement

The buttery smear

Of self-indulgence

The haunting

Of the halls

Of justice

The scent of fear

Whenever you are near.

It makes me sweat

All the way down

To my little cotton socks.

In my defence

It is a mechanism

To kick in

Whenever I am in the company

Of Wolves

Sycophants and psychopaths

Like you

Mr President

Like you.

Happy Birthday.