Hear ye! Hear ye! Let thou indulge the work of the high council of dumbassery!

Let this poem be a sign to all ye abe lovers, to be wary of your abes, keep them close, cherish them!

We open on a scene of late July
An early morning speech for a new man
Who recently retired from a high
Position in his country of Japan
Cam'ra's, microphones, but somethings sly
It seems he has a number one new fan
It seems his fan is here to say goodbye
And cease pathetic patterns and his lies

For in Japan a man with suit of blue
And hair of black is subject to attack
A spray of pellets ends ungodly coup
And falling to the ground the blood did spat
Across the concrete, didn't have a clue
His life was ending, such stupendous crack
As bullets pierce, he wishes he'd amend
For things he caused which brought him to his end

His policy was to remove the weaponry
Clamp down on foolish gangs who had become
A risk to his societies and treasury
The yakuza moved quick but were undone
And no more guns or ammo for the peasantry
But cops, their uniforms became well-spun
And so, the gun which killed him was handmade
And twice as many pellets pierced his suede

The power of the cannon was immense
And fault lie with the leader through and through
For if he had not banned with such intense
The pistol that the shooter should have used
A simple bullet wound was no expense
For social medicine which he had grew
It would have been no issue to give surgery
but could it mend the damage of his perjury?

Famous all too quickly this event
Had spread online like fires in a city
Where logging's where the workers time is spent
And no one gives the murdered man their pity
For quickly does the killers word cement
That cult with backing from the man's committee
Had stolen all his lovely mother's money
So, who could care if wounds had gone a-runny

So let me introduce my novel being
Who viewing video began to laugh
Cracking with their friends upon the seeing
Of murder, money, handmade guns, the gaff
Of twitter, in the midst of mental skiing
Becomes the place where men become but draff
This individual we shall call "Babe"
And Babe pronounced the victim "Shinzo Abe"

Babe was not of babel in no sort
One language, only English for their sake
Not saké, god no, Babe would so retort
That other tongues were demons dressed as snakes
Baristas knew them by the classic sport
"pretending to know French", but as they spake
The sound of western Canada "bon-jour"
Barista sighed and questioned Babe "what for?"

"A joke has entered mind, I see his body
Reminded of another Abe who died
To similar assassins, guns were shoddy
But only as t'was eighteen sixty-five
My loving friends, I may be off a toddy
And lord send me to hell for I have pride
This joke may be the best one of the century
I'll hold it back to build its mental reverie"

"Spill the beans!" Babes' concubine exclaims
"You need to get it over with, you see,
Your jokes are always awful, so damn lame
No thought put in, at least it gives you glee
To see your closest groan, as if to maim
Us of our faculties which make us free
No laughter, only pain can come from this
No happiness, but you will find your bliss."

B- "The joke is far too simple, I admit,"
C- "Then go get on, what's with this dance and song?"
B- "And if I lose this joke I'll throw a fit"
C- "Well hurry up, it's taking far too long"
B- "My concubine, you try to pass me writ"
C- "You need it, love, my head aches from your throngs"
B- "President, PM, is it not strange
How both were killed while donning title Abe?"

"What the fuck did you just say to me?
I think you've got his moniker so wrong,
Are you convinced his mother chose from jeez?
Of course, Japan has Christians, I am strong
But infer accents when you 'try' to read
Alarming idiot you're like a gong
His name was never Abe its fucking Abe
But you're too prairie-thick to understand, eh?"

Alas, Babes' friend had shocked them into place
At conversations end return to peace
And shocked too was the fan, quite a quick case
They locked him in the chair until he ceased
Few did care, yes, few did give it face
And barely in the paper made a crease
But whether either death was in the right
Seeing those big moments were delight

I feel that It must be Questioned whether
Irony had ever crossed the mind
Of Whitman when he chose to write like Werther
Of Whitman when he chose to write in rhyme
For Lincoln seemed to give the man a weather
Which lacked familiarity in time
Robin and his students may've exalted
But I have found the poem a bit unsalted

If I were Lincoln, and the greatest poet
Had seen my death and been so deeply touched
The inked pen had skill but couldn't show it
Furious from hell I would have clutched
My pearls and shouted from so deep below it
The states I would have cursed by Satan's crutch
And re-contextualize his art as silly
That Pablo would perfect his craft from Chile