Dictator B. had wavy hair/Tyrant Emil cracked his relentless smile/the green willow/ a clue to what was possible/gave pat answers called upon the rug./And all the while,/Emiliano dusted off his master’s machine/foe against foe/basking in the ducts of the sun./Funny then, how he inhales/in his passive nature/he conjures in the temple/all his Aztec lore./

Doc Poison walks across the schoolyard/today he appreciates the gods;/steps lively, trapped and elusive,/wise to peril./If angels had wings/they could help him flee


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