The lost one

There were no stories for him
no wars to win
industries to conquer
grandsons to cuddle

The neighbour’s affair
had run cold decades ago
And even the f* tenant’s blemish
now a gay bore

So his hands
gristly, ghostly, gout
once hunting light rays
over Candy’s now-ashen breasts
dither the glass

The stories too are boring
slow, meandering, ever-repeating
with too many villains
and no honour to gain

but at least 
by tapping the button
he does his part
in making them great again

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