O boggle-eyed fascist!
Squatting on your land in your tweeds
and your lucre accrued over long generations
like algae. After the Great War
you hunkered in that damp haven,
penning blotched missives decrying
the scourge of Bolshevism rising in the West
like a blue, weed-streaked arm from an ancestral lake,
boils swelling on your fat neck
as you dipped again and again into the ink well,
the catch in your throat
like a starter motor.
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