RIGHT ONIONRABLE PICKER, SIR!!

YUA
Your words are coats of power.
You wear them
in distending layers of authority
and everyone falls and
cr
um
ble s
under the Kilimanjaro
of your onionrable weight.
Powerful Onionrable Picker!
Your tongue wears
the shape of the planet Earth—
a sweet prison raping its subjects in bits.
A stony onion you are:
Gra du ally,
you blunt the edges of
the hoes that made your heaps.
You craft your own gavel
and, in it, growing ghosts of spites
roam like madmen in a sweltering desert.
Ever-right Onionrable Picker, sir!
Do not pick these words
with a glowering heart or a mind
that burns like Brother Sango’s eyes.
I am but one of your subjects.
I praise you in the name of power,
that brewery of intoxication
that steals senses from the best of men.
Do take my bow,
for here I am before your lordship—
myself, a camel with stretched neck,
poised for a drink from the lips
of your lord-ful river.
Onionrable Picker the Most Powerful!
You are powerful, sir!
You are onionrable, sir!
You are the Goliath!
You pick and fling
the threats that blight your self-ful goals.
Take my bow!