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The President's Brain

I was sent to fetch the brain
from a laboratory over the road.
Cold fronted depressions
surged through the morning.
People froze in their threadbare clothes.
Newspapers were full of it.
“Was President’s brain destroyed
on pedestrian crossing?”
“Driver caught torn to pieces,
then tossed among the crowd.”
“How will we now cope?”
“There seems so little hope.”
I was that hope,
descending cold stone steps
where darkness stalked,
let into a gloomy room
marked “No Entry.”
Roped off, top secret.
"Press the bell and say
who sent you."
“Is your name Peter?” “Yes.”
“Peter Poveroff?”
“Of course.”
I was handed a box
marked in chalk.
“Handle With Care.”
“You have your orders there,
they are in morse code”
“Mmm.” “Good luck.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Take care crossing the road.”
“If only he had.” I thought.
I walked back to the hospital
where laid out on a slab
was a flabby man without direction,
policy or aim,
knew neither right or wrong,
or on which party he could lay the blame .
Attached to his knee, a label read,
“Don’t move, V.I.P.,
he looked half dead
and three quarters insane.
A bit like you and me.”
I glanced down out of the window.
People in the street prayed
as they paid bills, filled in tax returns,
and those other government essentials,
that furnish all our days.
After making a full recovery,
the new brained president
began favouring the poor.
Two weeks later he once more lay,
slain by a single solid silver bullet
(which officials said had accidentally strayed)
straight through his cranium.

21 Apr 10

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Interesting write. and read
 — psychofemale

ya got a gift yo
 — unknown

Hi psycho female

This is one of my little psych dramatic fantasies that i hope to turn into a musical called "Don't Forget To Duck"

Larry tin hat Lark
 — larrylark

An yo got da words yo
 — larrylark

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