My King
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My King
By Floyd Emmerling, Bee Branch, AR
He stood there, bound like a Guantanamo detainee;
Lips puffed up, eyes swollen, and spittle mixed with the blood
That oozed from his brow and mingled with the sweat and dirt
Of that oriental court.
Silently he bore the jests of the rookie goons,
Ignorant, but intent on their sadistic sport.
In simple words he spoke truth to the federal judge|
Who seemed to know only that, having, he’d been had.
“To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world.
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