Jockied whispers stain our basement,
sticking to the kilts of those
dark and cheerless crimes we sailed.

Since last we met, several dollared
popes and a few flaccid heros
tolerated bitter gas and polecat,
presumably to fatten political raisins.

But we put the cheeseburger
on the plate, spitting secret globs of
filthy, griping anger, and the waitresses
sloppily transformed the presidency
into a jar of empty networks,
securing for my platter of beef clams
an eventless journey from my
youth into the highways of 1995.
What is your sod tonight?