Self-Portrait (Revised)

The title speaks the volume, with a lilt,
and, somehow, that should salve your bleeding skull.
I’ll rake my muck, and dredge my ounce of silt,
and shit in public, so it isn’t dull.
The “Prez” will send his steamer by the post,
by horse and pony, male and hot to trot.
His ghost’s the most, the holy Lord of Hosts.
Some things are for us all, and others, not.
We don’t need photo evidence of guilt.
We don’t need acts of penance by the sword.
We do not care what time machine you’ve built
from false instructions from your seventh lord.
We do not need a poem from a man
who might, or could, or would, but never can.