The Last Dream of Donald

Donald had a dream he never dreamt of,

thousands of acolytes gathered around

his majestic bed, sniffing the scent of

a long buried fear he hadn’t yet found.

 

He felt their clammy fingers make a start,

press his skin, penetrate his inner core.

They jiggled his lungs and tickled his heart,

fingered his brain, until tacky sweat poured

 

from tangerine skin onto pristine sheets:

then left this narcissistic soul in bed

to the snake which slithered round his feet

and licked the suppurations from his head.

 

Then the image of his true self surged up.

The acolytes began to pant, revel

in his panic and, chanting softly, urged

on the resurrection of their devil.