Protest Vote

Son of America,
     daughter of night…

You were
     the only friend of mine
who knew more about
     the Senate than I did
and it pissed me off.

     A cigarette grows lonely
in its ashtray.
     Even if it’s still burning,
even if you once touched it,
     even though it hears you laughing.
The next cigarette is too easy,
     done on the rocks or neat,
up or down,
     on account of voices present,
a few senators short of a quorum.

     Who are you to scratch
the paint from this chamber’s windows?
     To see 100% better?
So blanket the place
     with energy-efficient lightbulbs.
Become a baron
     in the local real-estate market for closet space.

Go retro, rock the curls, &
     wax your res manchu.
But if your collar’s up
     and there’s nowhere to pay
          that six-dollar cover—

Who gives a flying fuck what’s new?