RA-MI-SI-SU’s riposte to P.B.S. So, your facile sonnet seeks to sneer, to deconstruct my pride as vain, contrasting my tumbled statue lying broken here, with its cracked boasts of power, which wasn’t lasting. You think these desert sands should prove me humbled, yet I outlive the paltry life you led. All you enlightened wimps, who never rumbled how and why the world goes round, are dead. In this waste I fed my people; at my command for generations, alive, replete, secure, fertility was preserved on watered land and through such deeds and strength my name endures. But you - who are you? With your meretricious lines, purveying self-righteous outrage till you drowned, with trite satire and floppy-shirted whines a mere scribbler the world largely disowned. You ruled not even you, did harm, broke hearts; I advanced my state with all my power. A man so much less than the sum of all his parts you failed; yet I still enjoy my glorious hour, for though mostly unread, ironically your one poem that is, commemorates me! Mike Spilberg
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