PRESIDENT GAS

“Get these dead bodies off my racetrack!”

- Cathal Coughlan, _Only Losers Take The Bus_

Morituri te salutant, President

Fremont, Ferris F., duly wheeled out

for public delectation / defecation

w/ faeces-flinging where appropriate.

Salut, Mister President!

Is it your knees

now or your titties you

are in it up to? Perhaps

somewhere in between? It’s bracing,

isn’t it, that first clench

of the tide about the testes?

Morituri - let me spell it out:

the soon-to-die, those whom your sovereign self

has chosen for that honour. Election

by default: you chose us all in choosing

those who should be spared; that few

who patronized your boyhood - whose place

at your right hand, assuring, is assured.

No God of abnegation, your protector,

your strength and shield: foreign-sounding

kenosis not the raiment of your office.

See yourself therefore as dead somewhere inside,

a dry bowl where lubricious sin once plashed

its fountain. Say that your redeeming Christ

has laid all that to rest;

then what of Him is risen in its place?

Still, te salutant, of necessity:

as one salutes audacity; or, wearily,

the sheer persistence of untrammelled folly.

We will go under some time before you do,

saluting as the turds float by our nostrils.

(The smell of each man’s shit is sweet to him).

To you, are turds and corpses not alike,

evacuations from the hallowed grove

your fathers tended? No, don’t answer that.