No, people will not “literally die”
with the One Big Beautiful Bill.
We have other ways and means to kill.
We have other gasping fish to fry.
We have both large and little lies to lie.
Such blood we have unspilt that we would spill,
lap up like dogs, and smile, licking still
our blackened lips, and rear our heads, and cry
to the gibbous midnight moon that we’re
the future, vampire lordlets of a dying state
whose Croatoan we’ve already scrawled
in tax and tariff, though in sunlit sleep we fear
secretly that few of us will mate
and openly that we’re all going bald.