Nixon fell in ’74, like a painting off the wall,
and we busted out the lighter fluid, the marshmallows,
danced around the bonfire of him, ripped off
our paisley blouses, made love so cosmically
even the sun came, birds squirting in every direction,
but when the drugs wore off—what had changed?
When they said Watergate, we expected an ocean,
a river at least, to irrigate sunflower seeds of protest.
Not Gerald Ford in a see-through apology, offering
a sip from a half-finished bottle of seltzer.

Now, 26 years later, we’re free falling into the ass crack
between centuries. This’ll be remembered as the year
America took a swing at puberty, without exactly
hitting it, as the Supreme Courtesans prance around
the truth in high heels and black negligees.
Oh Scalia, I get so wet when you stuff your bra
and panties with uncounted votes cast by minorities.
Come on, Sandy, baby, let’s grind to the sound
of a hypo-cricket rubbing his two faces together.
Bush jogged for president on a hangman’s
platform. I just hope he wears a white robe and a halo
when executing people, ‘cause if you’re gonna
play god, you should dress like him too.