L'Enfant Terrible, That Whole Thing

Been a while, since last it was:
a different guise.

A bigger fry,
your idols killed.

The corpse don't care;
the gilded youth,
it guideth to the grave.

But who among us will be the first to fall?

Untouched by death;
once they were like us.

No nuance left,
the killer comes.

I write for the New Yorker.