Satire is Dead
A feeling of tundra floods the changing room,
showers preoccupied by dirty, bloody,
How one bleeds, unaware of the stream and
puddle under the desk the surge of red
veinfluid villa floor mosaic slopes
delta grouted runnel and gutter.
Nero’s noblest toerag spills his last.
Vomitarium graffiti states clear:
Petronius expired here