Having My Cake And Beating It Too

There is a conference every morning
in my executive bored room,
it has ivory padded rooms,
with red leather restraints and gold crosses.
At the head of the dining table shaped like a black question mark
sits the leader de jour, this time it is Lord Huh?
He looks like a Television Evangelist with a voice of Benny Hill,
speaks in dirty limericks as prayers
recites psalms from the Playboy centerfold comments.

Around the table sit the other masters of brain farts,
a repair man theologian who carves God
into the table with a potato peeler,
utters curses against broken toilets in pig Latin blessings

Then there is the baker fitness trainer
baking sugar free treadmills with cookie cutter on side
constantly muttering recipes for calorie free tennis shoe snacks.

Next to him is the Mad Hatter Dispatcher
who writes poetry maps about dead ends rainbows
speaking eloquently about metaphor freeways
on toll rolls that lead to mazes and soup cans.

After him sits the Wizard of Was.
Dressed as undertaker with clown mask
talking to himself
repeatedly constantly
every minute of ever meeting
pausing to scream at the mirror only he can see.

The final member of this ruler class of thought drool
is a banker who is dressed as the purple Lone Ranger
having a crown made of yellow toilet paper
that rambles about the price of diet coke
and the mirages of low fat banana splits.

Each assembly only ends
once I lure them to silence and sleep
by hosting a feast of apples and nachos,
drowned by gallons of diet coke
served at a web site diner.