The Cannibal Hymn

The Cannibal Hymn is at least 4,300 years old. It is found in Egyptian Pyramids, and also occurs as a "coffin text." It was so alarming and primitive that the Egyptians eventually stopped making copies of it. It is one of the masterpieces of ancient literature. Here is an abridged, modern adaptation the era of King Donald.

Warming, the weather turns terrible.

The stars are frowning.

The fracked bones of the earth tremble.

The coal mines are empty and dark

at seeing the Donald rising,

a god of inherited fortune

who feeds on the flesh of his mothers.

Though Donald is Lord of Wisdom, bigly,

his mother does not know his name.

Donald’s glory is in the clouds, bigly,

his large hands span the horizon,

like his realtor father before him,

though his son, Jared,

is mightier than he.

Donald’s tweets are behind him.

His party, his Dark-of-Water are at his feet.

Jesus and Mammon are over him,

his eyebrow-serpents are on his brow,

the Donald’s guiding over-comb

protects his forehead,

each hair alert for enemies

to add to the death-list.

His neck is there,

not to be moved from his mighty Trunk,

nor shall he arise from his golf cart

except to smite bad people, bad.

Donald is the Bull of the Sky;

flag-waving, he alernate-facts

his enemies into submission.

He lives on the past:

without reading its books he

devours its innards.

Everything he does, he does firstly.

He swallows even scientists

without acquiring an ounce of knowledge;

their magic counts as nothing.

Donald himself suffices.

He assembles his cabinet, then fires them.

Assembles more, and eats them.

Beware the field of spit-out ministers!

Donald appears as the Great One,

shoving aside the foreigners,

yea even Montenegro’s leader.

He calls on tribute lands for tithes,

withholding his hands and mighty arms

on account of less than two percent.

He sits with his back to the Potomac.

He needs no Congress for his advisor

since Him-Who-Is-Not-Be-Named,

the faraway Tsar advises him

on this day of drone-and-missile-sending.

Donald is the Lord of Offerings.

His coffers swell, his tax returns

known only to the gods below.

His meat and his ketchup suffice him;

no foreign chef does he require.

At night he eats his enemies

and sends out tweeted warnings

that the pundits and journals tremble.

His thoughts are like falcons, bigly.

It is “Bring-Back-the-Slave-To-Service” who is Sessions

who lassoes them for Donald.

It is “Snake-Even-Worse-Than-Donald”, the Pence, who guards and keeps the Congress fattened for him.

It is “She-As-Dumb-As-Willows”, named DeVos,

whose job is to keep them meek and stupid.

It is Bannon, slayer of Big Government,

demolisher of Bureaus,

who cuts the throats of the victims, singing,

Bannon the one who will extract the innards.

Conway will cut them up for Donald,

and Spicer the messenger whom Donald sends forth
to say the Yea-That-Is-Nay daily.

His consort Melania, and Ivanka,

beloved daughter, who cut them up

and pour spice into the Donald’s dinner-pot.

Bigly, the meals, with ketchup.

The ones who serve in Congress,

yea, even the Senate and the House,

from their heights they serve Donald.

The uninsured are butchered, the unborn

one and all are guaranteed to his platter.

Donald eats everything:

athletes for breakfast,

businessmen for his business-man’s lunch,

children for dinner with alt-spice and pepper.

Veterans and seniors are burned as incense.

A cauldron of women for a late-night pussy-grab.

Donald has filled the sky, and is the sky.

He crowns himself with the Pope’s mitre,

the crown of many Kings. He dreams

of Jared, Ivanka as Tsar and Tsarina

of Russo-Europe, the coming empire.

He has swallowed the Red States.

Though he does not like their savor,

He will devour the Blue.

With the help of his Dark-of-Water,

he will march against the Urals

and snap the necks of the Asian warlords.

He has swallowed all knowledge

and never once passed gas or turdling,

so he has forgotten nothing.

His reign will be limitless; he is the sum

of all the enemies he has devoured.

Whomever he likes is good,

whomever he dislikes is loser, Kenyan.

Soon no one will be left unbowed.

The rest will be eaten.

Do-gooders and liberals are helpless before him.

His tower of gold and marble the highest,

himself on top, immortal, beloved

of gods and the blazing stars.

He is forever, and forever, the Donald.


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