I don't want to play your game.
It's too savage even for Ghenghis Khan.
You pillaged the hordes and raped all the young men.
The town square is overrun with the odor of your sweat. 
Sailors are standing vigil outside your door.
Waiting for the scarlet signal.
The town whores have all moved to another state.
Leaving behind their white corsets marked
with blood.

I don't want to play your game.
It's too anonymous even for a male.
Your silicone smile has a thin razor edge.
A paper cut that digs in with a viral fang.
Eating flesh slowly inside my gut.
The emergency room doctors have your name on file.
There is no insurance for your disease.

I don't want to play your game.
It's too intricate even for the autistic savant.
You broke all the trojan horses of all the king's men.
They are now stacked as firewood outside the village gate. 
The town criers bypass the street where you live.
Remembering all the trauma of your bloody crimes.

I don't want to play your game.
It's too violent for PG-14.
The palace guards are swallowing cyanide,
when told of your wedding train.
Even Mao Tse Tung is celebrating your demise,
in the Great Congress of the People. 
Only the village idiot is standing outside your door,
returning the invitation for your nightly game.

I don't want to play your game.
It's got no rules and you hide all the pawns.
The Barbarians would have left town long ago,
sacrificing their young in your name.
Left standing only a forwarding address,
where once they proudly hailed.
This is a game no man can win.
Raise the white flag and let's retreat to Hunan.