It’s a dance I say,
third world American dance
you lead. I’ll follow
pretending I know the steps
no one has ever known.
Illusion of wealth, compassion,
the leader of the band stumbles,
his flute stuck in his fascist mouth.
We are the poor, the sick, the unsung.
Illusion, delusion, and confusion
have dealt the cards we’ve never held.
The King of diamonds wins
He always wins,
just ask Sartre.