In Which A Beautiful Decay Is Much Admir'd

The toppling of so great a thing must make

A great and thundrous noise, to summarize

What once was said of Caesar. Now I take

This thought for one of, perhaps, lesser size,

But one whose fall we've watched, aghast, for years.

Don Draper, he whose silhouette doth plunge

Past all his noblest works; in him our fears

Of meaningless and empty toil do lunge

To grab hold of us. We are stalked, the prey

Of time and glories past, false hope; just vain

And flimsy props to hide behind. Decay

Is what we celebrate in Don; his pain

Is ours. Nor is it caution; there is naught

That we can do; in that same web we're caught.