Barbarous Tenan 

Prepare…

The king of know-it-all,

The wheeler-dealer,

The string-puller,

And other now-you-see-it,

Now-you-don’t

Wizard of disseat,

Preferring houses painted white.

Asserts to be the

Self-proclaimed M. Boss of all M. Bosses of the universe,

Yes…

He is known as having been

A Barbarous Tenant,

Scrambling his digits nightly,

Filling his darkness with fake light from his iPhone,

And tucking tomorrow’s good-luck quarter-pounder discount ticket

Under his pillow.

As to policy decisions…

He’d be better off drawing upon the pages of the Farmer’s Almanac,

Or gazing into rain puddles of shape-shifting playtime,

But no, for he loves to put on airs

And cultivate his infamous image

While he kicks back behind his massive gold-inlaid desk

With nada in his in-or-out trays of honesty,

As he continually fantasizes ruling all of eternity spread around him.

I wonder…

Does it give him the creeps

To hear his disciples sputtering endearments,

Bending to kiss his ring,

As if he were an inflatable life-size Capone doll.

Someday…

Might his small hands be empty,

Along with his eyes,

As he looks for his favorite wide-tipped Sharpie

To sign phantom documents

The kind reserved for when the curtain is pulled back on such narcissists

And we see nothing but his mane caught

In one of life’s vacuum-wind machines reserved

For wild-haired primitive creatures

Of deceit, trickery

And brutish grifting?

But, hey…

Genies can always create a happy ending

If they wiggle themselves back into the bottle,

And make it past the celebration of their demise.

And they love parties.

BTW

There’s a lady in the mix now,

One who has used judicial skills to level many a playing field of demagogues.

So, Mr. Boss

Isn’t it time for your nap?

Genie-bottle opening waiting…

Pufffffffffffffff