His followers cheer him on.
Blackshirts take to the streets.
Barbed wire closes in on every unidentified
foreigner.

He strolls down the garden path
to the cheers of a crowd
that is easily pleased.

Does his brain inside
that black-lacquered head
lead him on?

Hardly.

As everybody knows by now,
another organ takes the lead.

He's close to the edge
and falls over yet again.

They simply love it.

All others have but one consolation:

One day he'll fall
for the very last time,
and take up residence
below the turf
from whence he came.