I ran out of things to say, so I’ll just drink instead.

Some kind of sinister
has slipped through the frame.
Name dropping got me
nowhere, but slowly.
For the final time I don
the lowly robes
of a lesser monarch
whose haphazard governing
has left the kingdom a parody.
I’ve arranged the books
on my shelf
in no particular order.
I have no new schemes,
no new drama.
One more whiskey sour
will finish me.

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