Robert Verdon, #58, The President

detailed

premonitions,

lace, then melting snow,

plans and guesses

wandering a world

whose anaconda highways choke the hills

down which my salary and what-not flow;

these reports I bin,

those I swallow whole,

all I want is home and better bourbon,

and to lobby myself for a change,

without a guard on every side;

yessir, it’s lonely at the top,

and I will not let my conscience be my guide,

for if I did, my ass'd soon get fried.