Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle
Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Ill:
“We languish here in deep red hell—
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.”
Replied Lil’ Kim: “The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs . . .
The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: “Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing The East is Red
Our party’s got it made.”
Ill Kim displayed a wicked grin.
“Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck
I think we still could win . . .”
The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
in communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
Replied to Ill: “This place we’ll fill
with dead reactionaries still—
fifth columns to inspire.
Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend
Remember Ho? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam
He’s limping toward his doom.”
A wizened ghost now drifted in
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle Ho Chi Minh !
“Ho, Ho—old friend! Draw near! Draw near,”
Spoke Mao: “In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.”
“Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
conspiring how to kill their cow
and smoke their duck and drain their sow
while they are buying bling.
Ho Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.”
Old uncle Ho, the sage revered,
did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp
It slithers like a jungle asp . . .
He paused and stroked his beard.
“You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol Pot
How best to steer this fight.
Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
of Kapital. His fame was huge
for plundering their treasure.
True, he had to purge his nation
such is revolution, gents.
The traitor classes see the masses,
through reactionary glasses.
Death or re-education!
We ought to sow his rural seed
for pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
to fertilize the harvest plot—
the people’s mouths to feed.”
When Pol Pot heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber.
“Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well and I will teach ya!”
Kim and Mao applauded.
“City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave; and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
until they love their leaders.
From the barrel power grows—
(I don’t mean kim chee barrel, boys)
Now learn my way. We’ll have our say
Their weakened states will wither away.”
The Red dictator rose.
Prepared to ramble on for hours
(the way Fidel so loves to do)
Pol Pot’s harangue now fired the gang
like rockets falling on Da Nang
emitting sparks in showers.
Hell is known for lack of stasis.
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
and constant similar affairs
the population faces . . .
Yet still they plotted in the blaze
with dialectic deviousness.
stinking sulphur brimstone rising;
ghosts in the yellow haze . . .