A gunshot tears the greetings of the crowd,
The Press assistant buckles to the street,
A human shield drops, bleeding on the ground,
The secret servant hustles in the heat.
A hostile breeze whips round the limosine,
The livid driver speeds, with horses' whips,
The agent turns to check- the wound is clean,
But redness bubbles from his master's lips.
One small gigantic step, and Rawhide falls,
The nurses rush to carry him aloft,
And as they bustle through the sterile halls,
His heartbeat falters, and his breath is soft.
His voice, with frothy blood, begins to dance,
I hope, he says, you're all Republicans.
- Tyler William O'Neil
- July 29, 2011