You can come into my kitchen.  I'm cooking birria.
The smell is magnificent, and it masks the odor
Of death all around.  The nation is dying, those in it,
Decaying, decrepit, collapsing into themselves,
And the whole of the white Western world's
The same.  The smell is disgusting, the view not 
A thing you would wish on even an enemy.  
In time, of course, we'll all be buried.  Someone
Will bury us, I believe, and the air will be fresher,
And growth will resume, but, for now, there's
No hope.  You should come to my kitchen.  I'll
Shred the birria.  We'll eat.