They say it’s just the East Wing —
a little “remodeling,” nothing more.
Wrecking balls swing like promises,
as marble dust drifts through the door.
The columns cough as they crumble,
founders spinning somewhere below,
while gold-plated chandeliers are wheeled in
to make the “people’s house” really glow.
They’ll call it modern, they’ll call it bold,
a ballroom fit for a king — or a brand.
Democracy’s drafty old corridors
don’t photograph well on demand.
The plaster peels, revealing wallpaper
of slogans and cheap self-regard,
and somewhere, under the rubble,
a Constitution bends its last yard.
Still, the cameras flash, the ribbon’s cut,
and applause is piped in on cue —
because nothing says “American values”
like gilding the ruins of what we once knew.
