These days there is no dearth of talk,
Only a famine of conversation;
More imbecile the argument,
Louder the assertion.
Nubile anchors propagate
With passionate personal force
What their paymasters designate
The day’s political course.
God’s lieutenants are hand in glove
With monarchs of the till;
Truth resides in the latest App,
The Demos equal a dung-hill.
Congenial mobs dictate the law
To consensual governments;
The Bench and the Bar fall apart
Under press of such events.
The Constitution looks askance
At its unstable fate;
It is now a Holy Book,
And now a thing of hate.
Maybe a missile will pinprick
An Asteroid in the air;
Maybe a wrath will descend,
Maybe the end is near.
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