Dear Tyrant

That of course is the entire point of

being a dictator, the deep suffusion of

satisfaction in tyrannizing one's subjects

to behave precisely as whims take the

one who decides who may live and who

will die. And who is there to oppose him?

Certainly not his staunch military owing

their status to their beloved dictator's

benevolence toward them. All the toys

of science and technology so beloved of

boys who will be men at his disposal as

he dabbles in the heady power that accrues

with ownership of weapons of destruction

that have few peers. A power enabling the

holder to taunt alarmed international onlookers

fearful of the child-in-a-man's-body's propensity

to raging tantrums whose threats bode dire.

As for the people over whom he governs to

whom he represents a dear leader only the

gods can remove they live enslaved to a grim

reality where the nation's sparse wealth is

apportioned toward their dictator's leisure

and pleasure where leftover dross may lead 

to mass starvation. The entrapped ecstatic

over their lot in life extolled by their tyrant

must suppress their joy and delight, freeze

any compulsion to smile, signs of disrespect

punishable by life in prison little different in

fact from their ordinary everyday lives.