Not the god he was in his prime,
Old Proteus, jester, moor, or knave,
Striking charismatic coin (despite high crime)
Burnished yet and ever by hands of slaves
Who know nothing but the need to own
A dream in which their chains are links to power.
Poor old fool, he stumbles to the microphone
Reiterating trinket promises of an hour.
Some Liberal Light or Stalin, young, noble
Of novelty, exchange of bankruptcy in France,
Who cannot find his mark (the spot reeling):—
Cameras flash and zoom and pad congealing
In little boxes, the global machinery of trance,
Over this queenless land of bells and baubles.