Someday, the natural language of the world might be poetry. In that case: The President's Poesy State of the Union Address: I banged my head on this low hanging debt ceiling, looked around at the jackals nipping at my heels like they hadn't had a meal and were closing for the kill, I knew they'd eaten plenty the last time at this table. A feast of fat and muscle (blood and bone as well), looted from the cupboards of the poor, flash floods poured into bright splash from the spigots of war, shameless gluttony till it's time to pay the bill. Now they scream about debt and austerity's lean while dismembering what remains of the carcass, swearing they weren't involved in this fable remembering nothing about how it all started. Though Justice be blind and the poor so much prey, the rest of us bought off, or scared off, or tired, The State of the Union demands end to this game, hunt jackal, dear people, till the breed has expired.
Signed, Your President
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