Cortes, My Ass

Thanks to you, I’m quite certain now

that reincarnation does occur.

You’re a revived Hernando Cortes.

In the name of gold and glory, you conquer.

The Aztecs, however, mean very little to you.

They’ll serve as a cheaply-paid militia,

who’ll escort you through Ciudad Juarez

to your compound in Chihuahua.

Let’s backtrack for a moment

and analyze how we’re even here.

You got laid off from your job two months ago,

and now, you’re up-starting a new career.

Apparently, you have investors from Canada,

backing your dangerous and unknown endeavor.

Either, you’re completely and totally out of your mind,

or ridiculously and insanely clever.

You left us all a year ago

to chase the fire in your mind.

Seemingly, you’re on a mission from God,

even though you’re not the believing kind.

You neither care, nor realize,

how you’ve dragged us through stressful situations.

All of this is because you’re brain

needs frontal lobe stimulation.

If you live, I’ve no doubt you’ll be successful.

You are calculating, and you are cunning.

But because of the wiring of your brain,

you’ll spend your entire life chasing and running.

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