The Boss Bus Driver

The boss is the driver
Of the bus without brakes
With little understanding of traffic rules
And no idea, whatsoever, about GPS

With no spare parts and extra fuel
In a straight line, at a breakneck speed
He drives down the road to perdition
Which spike strips can only accelerate

Onboard with him are freeloaders,
Quintessential political rectums; cheering
Whom the best they can espouse is shit
And when the spikes tear into the tires

And the shreds hit the shit, and specks fly
Without hesitation, they will take to the windows—
Leaving the boss, lonesome, as the bus barrels on—
For self-reinvention is best achieved stainless.

Indeed, it is on the altar of opportunism
That a political animal is best sacrificed.

By Maa Touray