Why on earth did I scribble this down?
I no longer remember, but it’s here,
in the pile of ideas for future poems:
How to poison a dictator?
What the hell did I have in mind?

Let’s see… Dictators are wary —
being paranoid is part of the job description.
They’ve got bodyguards, doctors, food-tasters.
Wait, perhaps I imagined crafting
the song of a foretaster, cupbearer…
How about Carmen praegustatoris,
set in Urbs Aeterna?

Or maybe I thought of Comrade Stalin,
agonizing in the pool of his own vomit,
poisoned by a villain
of the caliber close to his own?
Damn, how does one poison a dictator
without posing as his dutiful monster?

Well, maybe it’s for the best,
and dictators should be judged in court —
yes, in a world that functions like clockwork.
Surely it exists, somewhere…
But then why would they have dictators?

So, could we at least
try to poison the dictator’s
formidable image,
blotching it with truth and laughter?
By all means, especially if
we are countries away
from the dictatorial tentacles
itching to grab us, the traitors.

How to poison a dictator?
Next time, when scribbling ideas,
I’d better write what they’re about.