Only the Best Words Are Good Enough for You
You say you’ll make America terrific; you said so
over and over again. Surely by now you
understand how quickly parties end, how
first love dies, how fires flare and burn, ferocious,
until nothing is familiar anymore?
Chris Hadfield knew his path when he was nine,
knew he had to be an astronaut. When was your first
inkling you’d be the brat who grew up
not to be lauded for floating in space,
guitar in hand, singing Bowie, but for
dragging a once-proud nation into a swamp?
I don’t know who will speak for us,
croon away our worries, soothe our sorrows while you,
king of kraken, squire of sordid, overseer of odious,
write off the cautious progress we fought so hard for,
apologia, politesse and reason being just a few more things you’ll
drown like kittens in the trough of your miasma.
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