The other night,
I had a dream
that the President threw himself
off the roof terrace of the White House,
and while all the king's horses
brayed a bit,
the king's men stood
stone-faced and solemn
while a gray-orange mass
lay motionless on the cobblestones
outside Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Won't you help the President?"
I cried.

But they said nothing.
They did not move an inch.
And then I, in a moment of bewilderment,
wondered why I cared so much

and, upon waking,
why I still do.




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