. . . of sonnet xlviii in Your Obituary Is Waiting . . .
xlviii
America’s top shitholer goes whole hog at the public trough, and never mind the rest of us, because that is the hog’s nature. A silly grin when he licks his lips, a scowl like a lout’s mustache— the toadstool dick, the hellish grunts, the squeals, the bogus outrage of the ring, all are brazen matches for his silly pompadour. We crowned him circus king, our technicolor conman— we shamed ourselves enabling such a shameless thing.
‘We crowned him circus king / our technicolor conman’
