The putative alpha male dreams of his triumph,
Of how he’ll snap his ageing rival’s spine!
The putative alpha male’s planning his triumph
Thinking "In hours all of this is mine!"
The putative alpha male basks in the triumph
He'll celebrate emerging from obscurity,
Considers how he'll rend his rival’s children
Preserving thus his clan's genetic purity!
The putative alpha male bunches his fists up
And pounds them in a tattoo on his chest
And thinks about the sex & feasts & slaughter
That he will soon command at his behest!
The putative alpha male smiles at the triumph
He'll enjoy once he destroys his foes!
The putative alpha male savours the triumph
He'll taste, like salt, as he compounds their woes!
The putative alpha male pant hoots his triumph
In his mind: the gore, the broken bones,
The cringing, fawning, grovelling, supplication,
How each of his adversaries atones.
The putative alpha male's shaking a thorn bush!
The putative alpha male stamps on the branch!
The putative alpha male sees in his mindseye
Their severed heads in one great avalanche!
The putative alpha male grunts with contentment
And teases at a scab caught in his pelt
As the setting sun lengthens the shadows
Of the whitened skulls across the veldt!
The putative alpha male is crowned in glory
In his dreams, establishing the onus
Of brute superior violence as the clear proof
That this year he deserves his annual bonus.