Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Chair cannot hear the motion-maker;
Elections fall apart; the recount cannot be held;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the convention,
The flyer-choked tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is shouted down;
The rule-followers lack all conviction, while the violators
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the First Coming is at hand.
The First Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Bylaw 11.8
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with human body and the head of no man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert delegates.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That four decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a suspended rule,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Las Vegas to be not-elected?