Ill stars hang thick above a howling crowd,
congested red, atomic guts inflamed,
slit eyes on bloody heaves of iron uncowed,
the very stones afire, our days of shame.
As touts self-immolate in clockwork shred,
a touring quartet mouths, “Just get me laid,”
ignoring flesh that charred when witness fled
the guns that stitched a crèche with serenade.
A hacking scam, the fiction’s time at bat
parades a snorting geld that farts at sense
and cozies close with old clandestine hat
to pave a way for flagging peter’s Pence.
The bind, of course, is that mad crash and burn
unbottled once to feed will not be turned.