There are homeless campfires
On the lawn of his aureate anchor,
There must be, or the Commander
In Chief would not be fretting about
Who holds a dance card for his
Coming imperial ballroom.

The people must now
do their daily District pirouette in full view
of a military made Federal Constabulary

So the do-se-doing of domestic
Day to day is becoming a war-dance
of where are your papers and sending
Paupers to a suburban bandstand near
you.

Everybody Dance Now!

A bore store of wannabe synthwave