That bastard is a basilisk,
And death rays come from open lid.
He'll fast be rid of facile risk,
A glance forbids that which you've bid.
To him, this mob's an ornament,
He'll corpse the horde of your decor.
The trinkets will adorn his list
Of items spilled on mortal floor.
He'll soon prevent all retinues
From feeding you your fake respect.
A strobe-effect of global death
Will flash to lash mimetic sect.
He sees the whole, how everything
You seize to hold, you'll cease to own.
When league of cronies leave you lone
They'll leave you prone to fleeting throne.