crown of gold, cross of platinum

“It is finished,”
He must have said
—the fool who felt himself
a boy and crowned himself
King—
expiring alone
in the company of
His Personal Physician.
But all is not lost,
o mourning masses.
The coke-High Priests light candles,
give thanks that He died
—ascending the charts—
so that you may buy
a piece of history and
they may dwell forever
and ever
among the canyons.