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.
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