THE LAST MEDITATION OF MARCUS AURELIUS

Men called me a philosopher, and yet
They didn't know the price I paid for it.
It isn't easy for a man to rule
The Roman world and never lose his cool,
Especially when his wife's a tart, his son
A psychopathic thug who totes a gun.

Wearing myself out like a lowly grunt,
I spent my last years at the Danube Front,
Taking along my son to make a man
Of him (he thought that only brothels can).

My people lived for football and the dole.
Death claimed me in that dull provincial hole,
Vienna. Hardened legionnairies wept.
Does anyone still read those notes I kept? *