Union

Clouds burdened with rain slide overhead
black tuxedoes, ball gowns of burnished silk -
at that time of morning, lasers should be burning trees
on the Backs...
posing before medieval gateways,
they shiver, grin, digicams whirr. Henry VIII
ready to piss from a great height.
"E jus a car" - "Auch gut" - "Ce ça,"
"We give Italians  a say in our affairs" -
"In return, they will die for us if they have to,
a fair bargain 'tween folk, I'd say."
Now sunshine
jeans stick to thighs
and clusters of sightseers
mix with students packing cars.
P'pa insistently reads his map.
A bloke pisses on the rear offside wheel of his van,
bullish arms inked with dragons, crosses.
"Why we I hate America":
girdles m'dreams, cradles m'safety
gives threadbare Flashman one more run
at the mysterious woman
who stalks the singing rings,
whose oiled hair coils
her bronzed shoulders.

Morlocks burn, halflings skulk
by the section marked "fantasy".
The USA farts in it's sleep
and client states whither
with contracts written in rhetoric,
paid for by the blood of my kin.