They shouted nameless hunger from the streets. I saw the march pummeling barrel-boned feet onto pavement dashed with archaic names – Pennsylvania Avenue, caked in poetic-narrative. We shouted thunder and hurricane from our tiny voice boxes. We swam in circumstance, pomp, and pop culture. We swelled with pageantry, with the radiance of a crown not blatantly visible. We braced our ribcages for the spectacle. We paced through a parade, through titles and embossed penmanship. We wandered through the television, through the wash of blitz and brawn. We were no longer just a city, but a shout still ringing clear. We were no longer just a people, but a shout still ringing clear.
The beasts with fumbled roars, with aimless oars cackling through the Chesapeake. Peering, pining, purpling and vision-less. Curdled, crowning, coupled with charisma and cliche. Here we go, leaving the milk out. Here we are, drinking the sour cream.