Obama will soon be just a dark blot on the country’s escutcheon, a small man elevated far beyond his capacity, his very existence quickly forgotten.

The cheering crowds, the laurel wreaths

The gods who know that such as these

Who through good fortune thus became

The hero, whose deserved fame

Propelled him in the public eye

Would in the course of earth time die

And statues, slogans, paintings rot

In corners dark that time forgot