The King and His Band

She lived in a small hut on the south end of Aleppo.

Her husband dead and nowhere to be found,

her son strong enough to carry a weapon, left her

with bones, bones to boil down for her and a stray dog.

“Soon,” she groaned avoiding the animal’s stare,

“the dog would be boiled down.”

The city in flames for all the wrong reasons,

Eva would cry again tonight praying to another uncaring god.

Haya, her daughter, taken without warning in the night

she stirs the thin watery soup feeling lucky to have a fire,

a stove, and generous neighbors.  Russian bombs came closer.

The time would soon come.  Her backpack at the ready, and the dog?

The gnawing in her stomach gave a portentous groan.

Her motherland had been destroyed.  No one would save her,

not even the cold bluster blowing from the west.

“I love winning.  You’ll be sick of winning.”

Are you tired of winning yet?”

The king smiled at his restless audience.

They were in the mood for fighting and fighting is by God

 in his blood.  He hated the blacks, the Jews, and especially

Mexicans turned his blood cold, colder than January love.

Ivanka laughed, “I love you daddy ‘cause you are my daddy.”

“Damn right I am,” his teeth chattered with excitement.  “I’m your daddy.”

Melania pulled her hand away, “the bastard will pay.”

He gave her a look and a break dance broke out.

Huckleberry Finn played bass.

Kid Rock played his extraordinary flute.

Ted Nugent brought his guitar and a cute little friend.

Sarah sang a song full of lies as the king

stuck his finger up his ass and prayed

for another stormy day.