Propagandhi

Donald wept through the proceedings.
His tears soaked through the canvas that cloaked his
twisted face and they stained his orange jumpsuit where
with such rare distinction he once displayed the evidence
of his outstanding contributions to the maintenance
of a kingdom come. But those days are gone.
He's nothing more than a number on a docket thick with
shareholders, engineers, PR firms,
politicians: war-profiteers.
How the fuck did I end up here?
This just isn't fair. Ain't no place for a millionaire.
He searches for the words to stop this table in mid-turn,
like â??we are but old menâ?
 and â??we only did what we were told,
� but the laughter from the gallery drowns out these
vestiges of a profession's oldest defense.
The court will direct the record to reflect compliments
from the bench; you sir, are central casting's crowning
achievement. And for your outstanding performance
in a comedic role, I'd like to dedicate the findings
of the jury to the dead. But how can one man ever
repay a debt so appalling?
Can't gouge 10,000 eyes from a single head so I think
we should observe a sentence that will serve to satisfy
both a sense of function and poetry: so you will spend
the rest of your days drenched in sweat,
with your face drawn in a rictus of terror as you remove
another buried land mine fuse.
Meanwhile, 100 yards back behind the sandbags,
a legless foreman pulls the trigger on a red megaphone.
Squelching feedback. Drunken laughter.
Broken English. His dead daughter's picture.
Time and tide, no one can anticipate the inevitable waves of change.