The way Guevara attempted to set Latin America on revolutionary fire,
I try to shed some pounds.
as Ché counted every bullet before landing in Bolivia,
I count every damn calorie.
as he fought his way out of the jungles,
I’ve battled for the third day in a row
my bloody war with creamy donuts.
as Ché ran surrounded by soldiers,
I’m encircled by blueberry cheesecake.
it is everywhere. At work, at home,
in the hands of guests arriving at every party.
Evil capitalist cheesecake!
as Guevara was ambushed and captured,
I absolutely coincidentally entered a bakery, hollering my bold
“you can’t kill me! I’m Ché Guevara himself!”
And I screamed, pointing behind the glass, “you can’t sell me this one, and
that one, and that one! I’m Galper! I should fly after girls,
and not roll like a wheel!”
too bad. The execution squad’s hearts are unmoved, their eyes are
and the cruel honey cake and pitiless crème Brule
are deaf to my great romantic plans.
Bee-bullets fly out of the beehive of rifles,
Ché collapses into the nameless pit of Eternal Life,
and progressive humanity breaks down in tears.
Weak Galper falls into bed,
snoring, unable to move a finger,
and the Ideal of Womanhood departs,
cursing and untouched.