Octavian the reverenced, not yet August
Hush descends when he ascends the eagle pulpit, eagle blood pumping
Dilating pupils highlighting pool blue eyes, perfumes lies:
“Octavia sports roots Roman as Remus
Her blood follows regal routes teeming with Romulean energy
Her ancestors all conquerors whom fettered Gauls with palsy-blue tattoo coverings were brought to grovel before
He, the traitor to Rome Marc Antony, who soon will die, has left her unsatisfied
Bidden to Egypt by a guileful priestess
He and a she-witch practice incest in middens
Pittance neither for Rome nor hordes of hateful barbarians choking its road
Have we not made it so that all roads here lead?
Such is the cost of leadership, this constant bleeding
Grief of foreign greed
We hear pleas, pleases from every hungry dishevelled peon
They feed from us like leeches
Even now landing upon our teeming beaches, bleaching Rome of roman colours
Marc Antony would see Rome ruled by goats in Memphis.
Those fit once for slave collars will discourse in our great Senate!”
Last remark injects with venom more, much muttering from the floor
Leaves then, denouncing further pronouncement as mere pride
Showman’s crowdpleasing unseemly beneath him
His Princeps hems steps sweeping.
Alchemisland 
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