The Oliver in Our Master

‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
And the Oliver in him blossoms
In some ways more than my penchant for others' stuff
Like writing here in a foreign language
More than this, the hidden Oliver in him
He speaks in a couple of foreign languages
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
And he stands, his nose slightly tilts up
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
And his leather face, his shameless face
It glows when his master nods
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
He kneels and begs and weeps
He got a wife to pamper
He got to spoil the children
He got to loot for his grand kids
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
He got to loot for his line of descent
Ancestry has found a new name.

After Hiroshima and Nagasaki
We don’t even have to rethink
It’s gotta be his home and his bloody dogs’ kennels.

‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
Please do take too, that golden box of fæces.

The black haiku