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.