A Stench On the Potomac
Upon the banks where thick Potomac flows,
A spectral Stench through marble hallways blows.
The "rotten" scent that Elsinore once knew,
Now clings to laurels of red, and white, and blue.
A capital of gilded speech and performance,
Where power carves a logic of its own.
The pillars tremble under broadcast light,
As ancient mandates fade into the night.
No ghost on ramparts needs to call the name,
Of systemic corruption or ego's hungry flame;
For when the foundation begins to bend and break,
Something rotten breeds in the Washington dark.
While the populace toils under the illusion
Of weapons of mass distraction.
No comments:
Post a Comment