To bury or not to bury, that is not the question

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O Hamlet, but where
To bury the waxen corpse
Of a long-deceased dictator
From the land of corruption,
Hunger and stillborn dreams.
Bury him with pomp,
Glory and full military
Honors with a twenty-one
Gun salute at the
National Cemetery for Hypothetical Heroes and Thoroughbred Traitors.
Bury him alongside
The dainty, diamond-studded
Bones of a billionaire Tyrant’s mother.

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Bury him
In the largest, deepest
Crater on the dark side
Of the brooding moon.
Or maroon His Excellency’s Presidential stiff in the far-flung
Constellation Caput Draconis
On an isle in the middle
Of a shark-infested sea
Where a seven-headed
Chattering monkey squats atop
A leaning lone coconut tree
To keep it fine company.
Bury him in the damp mausoleum
Of oblivion, except there:
I In your heart’s Holy of Holies.
Let the quick and the living
Bury the dead, and the dead
Bury the living and kicking.
Of course, for the millions
He oppressed, and thousands
He tortured and murdered,
That’s another hemorrhaging
Story, O melancholic prince.
There’s no reason for them
To beat a dead horse but
More than a bazillion reasons
To beat and not bury this
Ruthless mummified kleptocrat.
As far as I am concerned,
The only reason I’ll ever
Object to his burial is my
Wishful thinking that he
Should have been buried
Alive instead of very dead;
Or if, heaven forbid, that
Burying him dead would
Bring him back to life so he
Can tyrannize the living again.
Long live our nightmares
And traumas of Martial Law!
Short live a dead dictator’s
Rotting delusion of grandeur!

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