He left a napkin at the bar,
Soaked with the sweat of his drink.
In runny ink (the shade of my pen's)
He sketched America on her head,
Boldly proclaiming the best of herself
As her blue-blood trickled down—
With the consistency of —
Her abrading rocky *******.
Below, this renegade had writ
In scribbled (nearly foreign) print,

"The one I love is dead."