We may share a halo in the dark
With you- moment to minute
Thirty-three percent of this decision is up to thee.
Thirty-three for the one they've been calling a He.
Thirty-three reserved to the necessary joined loyalty
to call "this", "we"
And one to old King Zeus, high
Eyes piercing, black as the dead of night
On the mountain top upon which the Great He resides.
Drinking from elysium fountains while
Most others feel a drought burn
in their throats,
They all hold the sorry and sordid note
of a particularly self-pitying semitone.
Vibrating desert air, the harmonic below
While the miser, glutton, clutchingly laughs
"Oh dear boy! What a wondrous show!"
And chucks copper colored coins in our general direction
Considering yourself lucky if "Your Man"
Wins an election.

I demand insurrection.
Don't let them leave you scared, second-guessing
Where the rest of the so-bless-ed water went.
Or why we hadn't started cleaning the ocean
with a garbage net.
Ten ****** Seconds earlier, left with
What life will swiftly be, left behind.
Some will be left, just to rhyme.