Parasite

When a smelly man dressed in Indian headgear

Sends a watermelon knife through your heart,

You’ll know you’ve fallen for an aboriginal trick.

You’ll wonder: where did it all start?

You’ll remember that sham artist, the one

Flaunting an American qualification.

You’ll remember how I forged trauma

In the corner of your imagination.

My brother, the brainless teacher,

My father festered four floors down,

The maid with a deathly peach fuzz condition,

Ousted by my mother, envious of her renown.

Perhaps you’ll have realized by now

That all of us poor people smell the same,

A whiff of the slums, a sniff of our greed,

We’ve exploited everyone to remain.

The world is too small for virtue,

The mind too small to be sane,

Our fate rests on the lid of an exploding toilet,

Your fate rests on our disdain.

I only hope that on a latter day

When the rich build better nations,

Someday you’ll be able to paddle

Against the waterfall of our own fabrications.