My stomach revolts at the sight
of your bullet-bald head,
your face’s smug smile,
the faraway look in your eyes
as you imagine new realms to despoil.
You turned “Democracy Dies in Darkness”
into hollow, bitter irony.
Katharine Graham’s cheeks
would be burning with shame.
Is it simple greed, like you don’t
already own enough? Worship of
the golden calf of vast wealth—
or fear of that other golden calf,
our century’s own Baal,
at the end of whose strings you dance?
Dance, puppet, dance.
The day is coming
when we the people
will cut those strings.