"Black Sweat", by Prince. Because, in the end, black sweat is what it took. But look what it achieved: the keys to the White House. (Are they gonna change the name of that place now?)
I suspect I'm not the only person outside of those United States to have gotten a bit emotional when the California votes came in and the numbers on the BBC web site crawled slowly, inexorably, and magically upwards until they hit the fabled 270. And then again, except more so, during Obama's victory speech. Being from the wrong hemisphere and not a watcher of television news programmes, I haven't heard much of Obama's speaking voice, but, man, he is a real orator, isn't he? In fact, I doubt that a speech anywhere near as powerful as his on election night has been delivered anywhere since, let's see, a few months before I was born. (Yes, it's the "K" word.) You were left with the feeling that America, and hence the world, is, for the time being, in good hands.
Whether, in eight (or four) years time, he will have turned out to be just another politician is a question that obviously can't be answered today. Nor should it even be asked. For now, the sun is coming up again.
(Probably now some fucker will assasssinate him, or he'll get inoperable cancer, or something. It just seems too good to be true.)
