As ballast we used a word hitched to the protectorate
And hoisted high that fancy cannon which shot glee forth
Like sugared butter from its frothy mouth-

And set out, with politicians fueling the balloon,
A lily-encrusted chamber pot primed for action,
And promptly we hid in the clouds.

Accumulating in the cottoned bushes we spoke of
Vietnam and Antietam
While taxpayers threw grizzly scalped mullets
And frayed propaganda pamphlets at us,
Upsetting the pollsters and causing the first ladies to weep.

There in the clouds, we, the king-makers, the rain bringers,
Jockeyed for position, who best to man the binoculars looking
Down into George Clooney's perfumery? Who best to beset
Their speech-writers on the tribulations of this nation's great tributaries?
And who best to pull the puds of the gas-spouters rigged to the foremast
And triggered to the jerk-knee bone of society?

As our self-adulation grew exponential in the mist our lookouts
Became embroiled in the debate of who was the greatest syphillis dodger
Amongst us and we lost sight of all that is grand and guignoly, namely
The Blackened Hand of God slashing down from on high to twist
Our sails into anchors and plummet us into the waiting fray
Which pounced like maggots on rotting meat, rending, masticating, rending.

And here we sit, immortal and molecular, the pure food of those who
Just so recently
Allowed us to ride on their broken backs
Into the sunset backdrop of our choosing,
So recently turned on us, so unappealable, so unsatiable,
They chaw right through us so ignominiously, us, us nobility.