where neither true nor false 
may leap nor jump, but only ‘prance',

perverted, elf-like, before the praetorians 
assembled to grease his false skid. 

Imperator-falsitorious, a grim joke, 
quaketh none, nor moveth earth,

but rattles mightily the ire of the just, 
sharpened daggars still sheathed, 

And we all saw it on the shinning screen, 
and, come November we will take him down...