It’s simple, really, your method of bending
the base instincts of the masses.
Convince them that yours is the one true reality.
Smother them with promises, but deliver the opposite.
No one in their right mind would replicate you,
yet the pool of hosts open to contamination
by your vile presence grows exponentially.
If only they would wash their hands of you.
Surrounded, as your are, by sycophants,
the only thing missing is a crown.
This is my response to Poetics: “Bartender, I’d like to close out my tab-oo,”
the prompt from Amaya at dVerse Poets Pub.