Dreams of Drones

I have a dream
that one day all races (but especially brown ones) will be powned
by simulator operators reclined in comfy leather armchairs at home
grippin joysticks and sippin hot coffee,
putting the target in your cross-hairs while eating a cinnamon scone —
I, Barack I’ll Bombya, hereby declare
as Executioner-In-Chief
that I lose not a wink of sleep
when I flip through baseball cards of bad guys every week
picking and choosing who to consume with hellfire coolness —
I’ll even greenlight strikes on weddings and funerals —
Fuck it, I’ll even bomb 123 Sesame St. if I have to
then follow the ambulance to the hospital
and pull the plug on Snuffleupagus,
laughing while I watch the encephalograph go flat

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