Endgame (rev.)

I guess when you're sitting blind on the brink

of a world's war three O Say Can You See is

kindeva downer, so bald boulderhead the

wrestler comes on like a fight emcee of old to

with wail intone a banshee's

baritone home town intro, while outside young

platinum blonde brit punk boys are stunned to see

sacred Hollywood overrun 

by makeshift tents of tawdry homeless bums,

their celeb status amid tinsel crumbs 

of tongue melt meth in slum overcome by cigarette.

And so the mighty meat collisions thus are begun

with rasp of cheer and funlike thud and rapping blare

for woofing tweets and tweeter woofers near deaf

tinnitic neath the smogfilled rainless skies of endless

sun. While faraway grayday shipdockers load crates

of guns for dueling slavic bands in unknown lands of

dumb miseries undone, the big orange and yellow

twin blotches on globe just below top splotch of

white, north pole.

So a soup gone cold's still called super bowl, 

much as rodeo cowpokes still exist 

to placate a wish for lost canyons full 

of wild horse in 

real roaming to, and fro.