The Spy (Cold War Mini-sub), Sonnet #632

 

Like a sty in the nation’s eye,

He’s a hiding-in-plain-sight guy,

A cataract of the blind lie —

People still believe him, though why

Is as mysterious as Pi.

A carnival barker, though sly,

And a connoisseur of the small fry

He munches either moist or dry.

He beckons the bucks from on high.

They all trot up to him and sigh.

He has a mantra: I am I.

There’s no disputing that, just try.

There are some who think he's a spy.

We know he’s set the world awry.

Note: The number Pi is considered 

mysterious due to its irrational and

transcendental nature.

The Narmer Palette (3,000 B.C.), Sonnet #327

It's said Pharaoh spoke in twittering rhyme

Due to his lacking a crucial enzyme,

Because he ate off of a golden plate

What he'd repeatedly regurgitate.

His crown was golden too, a heavy weight

He wore a rug beneath to soothe his pate.

He smote his enemies with a scepter,

A wand of lead he called his "preemptor."

He had a single rigid policy:

"I'll destroy you before you can hurt me."

That was more than five thousand years ago.

This palette is all that's left of Pharaoh.

They say he ruled a united Egypt,

Leaving nothing not ravaged, empty, or stripped.