ROMAN EMPEROR

Tim Skorenko



Don't you, Emperor, to love peace and quiet,
You have to celebrate a century Serenade battles
Bend under him the battle-hardened hoplites runners
A distant land. You have to see them target

For spears and arrows, to countless tricks below the belt
And no one to whom you must bow,
From the Northern countries to the capital pseudococoercive.
Loves Empire, parricide.

And going for an encore at the arena, covered with flowers,
A wave, the Emperor, with the sword, and graceful movement
Pierced naked throat lying Britta and
Listening to the crowd scream his defeat.

Road dirt your soldiers in Africa smelled,
Caught snatches of freedom cast in discipline
And you have dishonoured their women and make them whores
At every corner selling elegant lines.

And like thy generation were the heroes great,
Raised Rome to the pinnacle of all creation —
The nickname of your household will be Caligula
Not because of what you Rome praised relentlessly

And due to the fact that cast you into a bottomless pit
The greatness of the most beautiful of Europe's capital.
You're a God, probably. But this is no glory, no pride,
Only the weight on the shoulders of the tired, parricide.

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