Neither king, nor queen.
No golden crown or silver tiara,
And no roses to speak of—
Only the ravaged photographs—
Old farts on a dance floor
We can no longer navigate—
An ancient ship of bloody fools.
We wonder what possesses us
To hold such lurid poses—
Every five years like clockwork.
If the invitations were never sent,
We would not know where to go,
And the show might mercifully close—
Before the next stroke struck.
Yet for those who do attend,
Celebration is in the air—
Outfits chosen months ahead.
We memorialize the past,
Crisscrossing wires, state to state,
Reliving history each chance we get—
Even with our last breath.
