America has partied herself to death.
And I don’t mean with drugs and alcohol,
But with donkeys and elephants, mostly,
And all the pundits and labels that go with it.
She is out of her mind
And as good as dead,
Staggering about in these her
Grotesque final moments,
And barely able to hold her glass.
They all bet on when and where
She will finally hit the floor,
And whether she’ll even make it to 250―
Mere girl that she is among the nations.
She has run her short course―
Suicide by excess, greed, and neglect―
The vastness of her empire
Still a secret to her own,
Even as the auction is readied before
The surviving contenders,
Who cheer her on in her plastered revelry
To this very hour,
And wouldn’t miss this for the world.
