I will conquer them
with diplomacy, mere
words and contagion will
sneeze our conspiracy into
the air of their glamorous
glistening ball room.
My team offers
smooth and soothing persiflage
oozing our pus into their lungs; they
breath our loquacious anesthesia,
lilac scents of sensible chatter
(but their pusillanimous odor
repels us like a corpse flower).
We know the rituals we must
perform to hide the dagger
and dance for the pompous
who court us like
children at proms.
Weakening the enemy, we
send in our smarmy army, knowing
a cocktail or two will do
to suck out a bit of brain
through a tin ear that
hears only flattery.
They do not know
there will be blood
even for the elite.
My unctuous Ambassador
is slick, not anxious, and
he easily wheedles out
a disarmament treaty
holding his nose
against the stench
of decadence.
We wait for the fools to
celebrate their papers, and now
when their guard is down
our daggers slaughter,
as in ancient times, and
I demand
those not dead must be
obsequious, and
happy to be
our new slaves.
Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets 