11 (joust that hack built)
Cruel crisis, and we, dusty dividends,
are flies fleeing, black mist, from the horsemeat.
Tuck your money into large plastic bins,
and hide your interest in moirée pleats.
There's still time for lifelong love, or a mistress,
or to make new friends with the newly human—
or to elect a new death queen or goddess,
or empress or temptress, or vampire granddame.
We are all of us ample and simple:
fat and stoopid happy with our horseshoes.
We are all high fashion and unpimpled.
Luckless, the lucky, who can't sing the blues.
"Viva! Touché! And take that, vile viper!
You shall quench the blade of this window wiper."