The glowering rage
of a Deaniac cacaphony
echoing through the empty minds
in a relativistic frenzy
faster than the speed of angst,
burning through the Kennedy caverns,
until it lands,
finally to be stomped upon
in fine Clintonistic style,
while she looks,
hoping no one who would be offended saw
the ridulousness
of the statement.
how have you been, knitting? we have missed you.