No Hope, No Hoopla: this is Low-Key Hell,
Where Glum’s the Word, the cocktail hour comes,
But the town is dry, the duck who guards the gate
Has three heads, as he ought, and devils are made
Of cooking oil and pink asbestos fluff.
There’s no spare change. There is no change at all,
Only the psalms of praise for other folks,
The ones who did not care enough to fight
For White After Labor Day or Rules Against
Perpetuities for everyone.
It isn’t fair, which, really, is the point.
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