Re-posting this poem from April 2013 (but with the edits I later made for Journalism) for Election Day. The original post can be found here.

With rodomontade nonpareil,
the esteemed Senator Dunderhead
clove to the bilious position
he’d espoused during a particularly
ego-fuelled rant
in the aftermath of the latest
crisis. That the elusive logic
of his twice-baked bluster
merely threw salt on the wounds
of an already-injured Lady Justice
seemed of little concern to the
Good Senator,
living upwind of the gutter as he
did; it was enough for him that
he had enough artillery to lob at
the ghosts of once-confident, now
desperate citizens that the toes
of the ever-mercurial press would
simply curl in delight at the
attentions of Senator Cyclops and
his monocular minions. Never mind
the miraculous ease with which
that Good Senator and his ilk had
routinely squandered the public’s goodwill—
happy to abscond with the people’s hard-earned
tax, content to gorge themselves on
wine, cheese, truffles, the occasional quahog…
For these generators of gluttonous guile
guard not the public trust, but the private
safe. The Wise Old Owls that once
filled the halls of Congress have long since
withered and died, supplanted by conniving
cowbirds. May God help us all…

(4 November 2014—originally posted 20 April 2013)