A quiet room for contemplation,
Of affairs of state.
Whoever else can save this nation,
From its dreadful fate?
And so I ponder, furrowed brow,
While sitting on the throne.
The strain is written on my face,
But I’m not one to moan.
And then I start to huff and puff,
Ears steaming, lips apart.
And finally, it eases out,
A wise, prophetic fart.
© Copyright Philip Barton, June 27th, 2025 All Rights Reserved
