Take
all
your
overgrown
infants
away
somewhere
And
build
them
a
home,
a
little
place
of
their
own.
The
Fletcher
Memorial
Home
for
Incurable
Tyrants
and
Kings.
And
they
can
appear
to
themselves
every
day
On
closed
circuit
T.V.
To
make
sure
they're
still
real.
It's
the
only
connection
they
feel.
"Ladies
and
gentlemen,
please
welcome,"
"Reagan
and
Haig,"
Mr.
Begin
and
friend,
Mrs.
Thatcher,
and
Paisly,
"Hello
Maggie!"
Mr.
Brezhnev
and
party.
"Who's
the
bald
chap?"
The
ghost
of
McCarthy,
The
memories
of
Nixon.
"Good-bye!"
And
now,
adding
color,
a
group
of
anonymous
latin-
American
Meat
packing
glitterati.
Did
they
expect
us
to
treat
them
with
any
respect?
They
can
polish
their
medals
and
sharpen
their
Smiles,
and
amuse
themselves
playing
games
for
awhile.
Boom
boom,
bang
bang,
lie
down
you're
dead.
Safe
in
the
permanent
gaze
of
a
cold
glass
eye
With
their
favorite
toys
They'll
be
good
girls
and
boys
In
the
Fletcher
Memorial
Home
for
colonial
Wasters
of
life
and
limb.
Is
everyone
in?
Are
you
having
a
nice
time?
Now
the
final
solution
can
be
applied.
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