Y - I slay tyrants in my sleep

Who do you dream of at night?
God I'll tell you who!

With a bolt every morning, late morning
I commit tyrannicide!

I smother them with my pillow

All that's left of them is thin wisps of
humiliation humiliation

Croaking, dirty old man tyrants
croak their last
Weasel-like poet tyrants are
affectionately strangled with their coats

Gentleman tyrants, faceless white tyrants
who rule telephone wires in the third world
Even, sure, the odd Jewish-born tyrant
(and why would I lie about that?)
I'm at them from the rooves of a school
with a gatling gun

Tyrants of my schoolyard and adolescence,
Tyrants who demand simplicity, compliance
Tyrants who wish I wrote faery stories
Lazy, bellowing American tyrants
I slaughter them all with my two hands

When the pillow is damp
with my wet hair
and the bed mutilated
I want you to lay beside me
So I might sleep with your face near mine
and yours would come through my eyelids
to disturb their charms
and remove their grace
so they look nothing like me

I'll dream instead of small rooms
Crockery and financial gain