Smashed in riotous circumstances,

he wobbled at every function

fanatically followed by “the sheep”

he called them; and they followed

bleating their two-bit ambitions

in the wake of his rising star.

He really didn’t care;

they liked the money,

he liked the company,

it was lonely at the top.

He popped another

and dove right in.

The flock grew infamous behind him,

braying loudly, squabbling furiously,

eager to sup from the hand that fed

too busy clutching at bottles instead,

fighting dirty, spreading muck and filth,

he was theirs, at least in their heads.

They really didn’t care,

his cash stopped flowing,

he was empty inside,

they’d drunk him dry.

They waved goodbye

The shepherd cried out

but nobody listened;

it was all just an act,

the boy who cried wolf,

nominated by the Academy

consumed by the herd.