He believes in his heart and in other uninhabited regions
(his hoof and his haunch, and, true to the cliché, his head)
it’s ordained that his gang (he prefers people call them his legions)
should invade the next country and make all his neighbours there dead.
Except those he’s seeded. He’s planned this invasion for years.
His discontent with his own life prevents him from valuing theirs,
the lives of his neighbours. Convinced the Apocalypse nears
(in dreams he keeps private for now), he dissembles and wears
his uniform well, with its medals for bloodshed and sorrow.
He smiles at his neighbours and tells himself, ‘They’re dead tomorrow.’