After years of struggle and sacrifice, he finally stood at the podium about to give his inaugural address. He and several speech writers had slaved for days, carefully considering every word. He wasn’t expected to need help writing, of course; the country of Poetica held an ability to craft pretty sentences as the most important skill there was. He had been elected almost entirely because of his silver tongue.
He ruffled his papers, ready to speak, and let his eyes wander over the crowd, they fell on a woman in the front row wearing a low cut top: his only weakness! Had she and her boobs been planted by his political enemies? He wondered. She winked at him and he looked away quickly, his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed full of sand.
The new president opened his mouth to address his country of artists and poets and said, “hibop-nar giggleet doober…” then, his heart stopping in embarrassment, he died.
As was customary in the country of Poetica, his tombstone was adorned with only his name and his last words.