In the city of fickle angels, in the land of boob-tube America...
The clay-footed hero rode his white steed on macabre macadam.
Only the drooping heads of wayside Chickory
	 (withholding their bursts of blue glory)
 paid silent homage to the victims of the passing king's conquest.
In the scant shadow of palm trees, the hosanna horde gathered.
And from the overpasses, some strew their garments
  bearing blessing for him who came in the name of Olympic gods.
"Remember that thou art mortal" the chariot driver's whispered mantra,
While, hand on hilt, the king readied himself to fall on his sword.

Fast as flies to feces, the whirling birds descended, deus ex machina,
	turning the public eye to the peculiar parade.
Each Family Nielson shot up a full vein of media-fed voyeurism
	taking the sycophantic cycle of supply-and-demand 
		to heights known only to "Man On Moon!"

While the curiosity factor congested the American Info-Hiway,
	the world was gathered in the stadia of the hero's former fame
	where warriors of a different football were crowning a king.
In the bowl of roses, hometown underdogs humiliated the poppy growers.
	But when the cartel slaughtered the game's goat,
	that multitude paraded for the victim, not the executioners!

While the world watched the titans clash on the pitch,
American fans, feeding on a high fat media diet,
	became overnight expert witnesses.
So when the prosecution called for the severest of sentences,
	and after washing his hands, the judge asked,
		"What then shall I do with this man
			who is called hero?"

They raised their voices as if one,
	"Crucify!  Crucify!  Crucify!"