the Übermensch, now a cockhold,
lay sulking in a three day drunk
singing old Elton John songs, fat
with the comfort of calories, sobbing.

(Mona Lisa must be laughing; the same
berserk stare in Goya's Saturn's eyes,
gorily devouring a man top down,
plastered in her waxing cackle-gaze.)

With bile usurpation in his throat,
the Übermensch trundles to his side, gazing
out the Cambridge blue beck of the window,
all Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and cookie dough.