Taking On The Dictator’s Statue

Somberly he stepped forward,
wobbly knees, swaying arms,
a high bald head as if his ears
had crawled down the sides of his head.

He mounted the round base of the statue,
the fixed smile of impolite idiocy on his face,
drunkenly saluted the figure in soldier’s uniform
before tweaking its beaked nose,
pulling at that comb of feathery hair.

He was about to address the crowd
when his body suddenly stiffened,
and he toppled to the ground
as if shot by one of the dictator’s henchmen.

“Are you okay?” somebody asked.
His eyes were so stiff
when they finally moved
you could hear something creak –
the pages of history, no doubt.

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