The Primary's Coming

In the voice of Seamus Romney (thanks to Yeats!)

TURNING AND TURNING in a narrowing crate
The setter cannot hear the master
Seamus falls apart; this setter cannot heel;
Eukanuba is loosed upon the world,
The fear-thinned poop is loosed, and everywhere
The facade of empathy is put down;
The best lacks clear decision, while the worst
froth with passionate stupidity.

Perhaps the Mayan revelation is at hand;
Surely the Primary's coming is at hand.
Stop calling me Shirley. Hardly are my LOLs out
When a plastic visage out of Pluribus Unum
Silences my barks: somewhere on the blackness of the highway
A shape with tailored body and hair of airline pilot,
Eyes blank and empty as my water bowl,
Moves with its hoary smile, while all about it
Passing signs of underwater houses.
Cold water hoses me again; but now I know
That no surcease of canine sleep
can spay the memory of the rushing station wagon.
And that cruel beast, its poll numbers inching upward,
Driving toward Washington to be President . . .

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