Epitaph Of A Tyrant Poem by Gert Strydom

Perfection he was after
but in his paintings,
there was none of it
just the lines of a third rate artist

and the human spirit, the minds
the heart of man
he new better than most
and talked and talked
and when he spoke
he dazzled them

and when the corporal
suddenly outranked every general
as commander of them all
swift action did he take
to conquer the whole of Europe
to send a superior air force,
his battle tanks out in a quick strike
even to venture as far
as the depths of Russia

and he held every single Jewish person
accountable for all errors of the past,
killing most of them
including men, women, children and babies
thinking that he could build a empire
that could last and last
and the poetry he invented
was brute force, by the barrel of a gun
and any manner of death and then some
but as with all tyrants
his end did come
and with his own hand
he killed his dog, his wife and took his own life.