He dyes his hair.
He paints his face.
He hides behind a screen,
Curled up in a sumptuous lair.
He takes every care
His weakness cannot be seen.
But, when he commands the tide to turn,
He wonders at his impotence,
As the sea laps round his feet,
The citadel begins to burn
And common people spurn
His rule on every dancing street.
His time to leave is here,
Head bowed, in disgrace.
His fingers drum in futile rage.
He feels, at last, the helpless fear,
As the tear gas starts to clear
And he foresees the bars of his own cage.
Two down. Which dog dies next?