Overnight, a striking writ came to sit at our feet,
lingering vexedly between two antiquated lamp posts,
counselling like an exec:
“Think bigger!” its pressurized paint begged,
“Bigger than your bonuses.”
Of course, the already elevated are loath to change direction,
even as they reap reformist animus with fall’s blond and brunette debris.
Thus by evening the powerbrokers ensured only their sangfroid showed,
and all signs of palpable disdain were erased.