Justice is broken, she lies on the floor,
and if she should die, there’ll be justice no more.
We’d like to believe she is strong, she is tough,
but she’s fragile and old and it hurts her to cough.
He says she is rapidly losing her mind.
The justice he likes is a different kind,
one that’s drunken and feral and never quite blind,
and kisses his royal fake POTUS behind.
He sits on his throne, as he schemes and he tweets.
Justice is broken; we take to the streets.
“Tokyo garden loses fortune because ticket seller was scared to charge foreigners: Man let about 160,000 tourists into Shinjuku Gyoen garden rather than risk being yelled at for not understanding them.”—The Guardian
The tourists in the garden
Harden and grow cold.
I’m jumpy as a cricket:
The tickets are unsold;
I don’t feel bold;
I squeak, “I beg your pardon…”
They’re angry, loud freeloaders
With sodas. It’s the end;
Municipal grim reapers,
That’s keepers, will descend;
And soon, my friend,
There’ll be some evil odors.
It should be gratifying
Supplying what one sells;
But stress is always mounting,
Counting each coin or else
Those dreadful yells!
I’m trying, Gyo-en, trying
And not expecting pardon,
Barred and de-pensioned too;
But is it such a wonder
Blunders occur—have you
Not once let through
A tourist in the garden?