They’ll hang another dictator come sunrise.
They’ll take him outside, where his last stars shine.
Boots will clatter on the stoic stones
like his last words, which will not be his own.
His stride across the square will be just like
the stride of those who died before him. He’ll take
his steps onto the scaffold with his head
as high as theirs. The warmth of his last bed
will have faded. The noose was tied with care
by his successors. When a final prayer
has finally ended, they will crack his neck,
and they will pray that they won’t make it back
some other morning as the perpetrator
when someone will come hang the next dictator.