In A Shithole Country

words stay with you.

In your sleep you
can still hear them,
even though you
don’t believe them,
not really.

But then again,

it takes one to know one, or so
it is said and
according to him, 

in his country
the President’s
official house is
a dump and the neighbors
ship rapists and
drugs right over
the line to infest
the clean bathrooms of
the homeland — and

don’t forget: his own
shithole, back home
in his palace, is alleged
to be plated in gold,

is kept very, very clean.

Bullion
in a bowl
just smells right, right?

Meanwhile,
in Norway,
no one’s getting up
to pack.

A shithole’s in
the eye of
the beholder, it seems,

and sometimes found
most easily
under

an ass. 

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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