Only a witling – the basest gull –
would believe at this point in the nation.
The risk is substantial but loose,
like a roux turned to dumplings.
Too hot too fast.
He hit the atmosphere like a semi,
bellyflopping sideways, ripping
instantly, the foil-wrapped
morsel shredding and igniting
at the speed and the heat.
Miraculously, he survived that landing
and now stands in a crater
surrounded by sycophants and raccoons.
Obeisances scattered like lilies.