To be maniac is the way to win.
Or not to be is not a question.
From escalator down to each ascension
madness is as madman does, and sin
eats sin and grows more grossly sinful in
each insult, sequitur, and weird digression:
what past-returning font of retrogression
switched off and left a moldering manakin
where once a king stood promising RETVRN—
false Cyrus flopped; he watched TV; the deep
old guard still runs this third or forth Rome
we’re on; the fiddle trills, the fires burn:
the gods? All gone. The augurs sleep.
The rally ends in rain. The crowd goes home.