An American Entertainment

Oh ye buffoon, of yellow belly (and face
and arms and hands) -
why do you wallow,
with such confidence
in your incompetence

allowing disaster after fully-qualified
disaster
to seed, take root
and blossom
under your feet?

Your eldest-born, your only son,
whose achievements are naught more
than your own (a feat
admirable for
its abhorrent vacuousness)

- you throttle him, regularly:
yet he should
do the same
to you,
locked in mediocrity.

Your youngest – what of her?
I think she sees
her family's
inherent madness.
She copes her own way, you know.

And your spouse – oh, dear heavens!
She would do well
to slap, to hit,
to defame your ugliness -
yet she hides under mascara and hair products.

Only your other daughter,
barely eight years,
seems aware – aware of suffering,
aware most of all
of her misfortune – a Christ among fornicating apes.

Yea, you shall soon stumble upon a destiny;
and your talking heads,
your madness, your stupidity
will encircle and suffocate

your beloved satirical norms.