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Paired with SOLThe ship of state, a sturdy thing, Now lists beneath a gilded wing. A captain bold, with hair of spun gold, Declares the ancient charts are old. “The courts,” he cries, “a pesky lot! Their rulings? Easily forgot!” The laws of land, a minor strain, When power’s grip is all to gain. The framers’ words, a quaint decree, For modern times, they cannot be. The balance struck with careful hand, Now crumbles like a castle’s sand. So raise a glass to chaos brewed, The Constitution askewed. A crisis grand, some say it’s near, But gilded towers block the fear.
