A sinister guy, A nefarious chi, A Napoleon complex he keeps; The west to rebuke, He set off a nuke To relish attention it reaps. He’s flexin’ his muscle, To those who would tussle, His ego’s as big as the sky; “Hey, look at me! I’m nearly five-three,” His appearance a threat to the eye. The world is his stage And it’s all in a rage, For he discounts all public appeal; He does what he will, For he is Jong-il; In Pyongyang he’s at the wheel. He succeeded his dad As the dictators had By Koreans, thus sealing their deal; He lives in a palace, Drinks wine from a chalice, Though deny he his people a meal. He becomes number eight, Joining each other state In the club holding nuclear arms; He’s thumbin’ his nose And mocking of those Who threaten his nation with harms. It’s been the convention, This marvelous invention Has delayed the concluding demise Of the dwellers of earth And the subsequent dearth To be found under mushroom cloud skies. In the hunger for power, The earth’s final hour Is born in iniquity’s den; What began with an Adam, Will end with an atom, A question not if but of when.