Epic poetry

A poem in honor of the recent congress of the Srpska radikalna stranka in Sava centar:

In Karlobag
the gentle breeze
stoked megalomaniacal
Perchance to march
our souls in tune
with rhythm kept by
rusty spoons
The further away
the louder the din
all the way to Ogulin

Or backward, it seems
with no stops for pizza
The last stop was
in Batajnica


Bez Komentara said...

I like such a ironic poetry... :)

Viktor said...

Excellent. Reminds a bit of the worst poem in universe:

The radicals lay in the stagnant parliament.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of spoons dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the parliament's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.