The Anti-Midas Touch

“I’ve a few moments to shine after my eternal holiday upon the couch,

where stillness is my precious deed;

I went to Hungary to pay a visit to our autocrat friend,

I seized the microphone, shouting:

“No outside forces pressuring you or telling you what to do!”

Oh, but what have I done? The mob misunderstood, and I let my bosses down to lose.

I promised to uplift the working masses in Kentucky

With my millennial methods, tweeting from a dirty couch,

But the million-dollar idea plummeted into bankruptcy

Because the promises given were nothing but flatulent wind,

And to make America great again, we had to hire migrants

To fulfill the dream of 7-to-5 labor for all, without proper conditions.

I was sent to Islamabad to claim our Empire's rights,

Indeed, more than 21 hours of talks, what a delight for my tongue,

But the outcome isn't what I had been told,

And the war still rages on as the Empire prepares to fall.

“Bad luck,” I must chant to my King without a crown,

That our tight grip can no longer hold the sinking boat.

Perhaps my deadliest touch lies in my shifting thoughts;

I once pronounced hateful words against the one who delivers chaos.

He promised hell with beautiful divans with blondes and Christian girls,

And that the Empire would float in local waters… none of that happened.

Now, the old crypt is crumbling, and I must accelerate my own failure,

So tomorrow I can finally deliver the fatal strike to this weakened nation”.

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