The Madam Wears Stolen Prada

The Madam Wears Stolen Prada

Written and Board by Jian Muyano | 23 August 25

Tonight’s runway glitters in green —

not the color of hope, but the shade of greed;

her gown stitched from public funds, 

perfect for a lady who devours her crumbs.

December opens with flashing lights:

The House files her case with all their might.

Complaints click like tabloid snaps, 

while the crowd counts every peso she traps.

By February’s fifth, the big reveal — 

215 autographs seal the deal; 

the House shouts, “Sold!” and hands the case

to the Senate, lounging in silk and lace.

But the Senate, fanning themselves backstage, 

Says, “New rules first — we’ll set the stage; 

Justice is couture, slow and on cue,

come back in June to see what we do.”

The nation’s hopes trail at her heels,

brushed off like dust by polished deals;

each branch declares, with grand display,

“Democracy’s alive—on layaway.”

June rolls in with a twist, oh so slick: 

“Return to sender!” they vote with a flick; 

the House panel pouts, their protests delayed, 

all while Madam smiles — untouched, unbothered, unafraid.

July’s finale drops from above — 

the Supreme Court rules with a velvet glove: 

“One gown per year, you’ve had your shot, 

procedure says this dress is not.”

Then one fine day, the spotlights fade,

the wardrobe closed, the music played;

“Archive now,” the Senate hums,

“Perhaps revive… when boredom comes.”

In cedar’s dark, the case is pressed,

“justice” denied her rightful dress.

Next stop: Dubai, then Milan, then Rome, 

her Prada heels click across foreign domes; 

while out front grins the guilty face—

the star, the thief, the whole disgrace.

We are told to clap. 

We are told to smile. 

We are told to forget—

if only for a while.

We laugh, we roar, we will not bend, 

and in our memory, injustice is our friend.

Every seam recalls the months we’ve tracked,

the lights, the votes, the Court that held it back.

We wait, we stare, we watch the show,

the gown flaunts its lies for all to know;

each seam and stitch move in play,

the gown denied, yet still on display.