Land of sinking ships and rising balloons,
of forgotten editorials and unread runes,
of street jitters and broken neurotransmitters
and vape-like clouds of raspberry-flavored rancor—
check our latest nominee
for Something-Something Secretary,
fresh-drawn from Nature’s endless supply of wankers.

Land of Fugazi and Funkadelic,
are you ready for the Assault Imbecilic?
We’ve purged the dissenters, installed the crawlers,
and ringed the building with bootboys and brawlers.
We’ve issued an immediate pardon
for the toad at the bottom of the garden.
No blackouts, no rolling of tanks,
but yup, we’ll take your democracy. Thanks.

Abraham Lincoln sits on his kitchen floor
by the open fridge door,
and does he weep or does he laugh
as one by one the orders come, signed
with a mark like a stricken cardiograph?
Down and down we go on the hellish conveyor.
And we know what hell sounds like. It sounds like Slayer.
Light verse, light verse, this is a heavy lift:
How can we tell the grifter from the grift?