High on the list of autumnal fund-raisers,
black ties and pol fops, not a hair out of place,
the evening's summation for the party's appraisers,
ca-chinggg, a money thing...all with a straight face.
His crisis of mid-life he ignored with that grin,
the one that says loudly, "this trouble, I'm not in",
came from a 'right-wing' thing, 'conspiracy' from afar,
his party's confluence with a newfangled Starr.
None blinder than the eyes of the ones who won't see
the filth of the garments that they wear every day;
besmirched and splattered, not appearing to be free
to launder and scrub down, he's become his own prey!
They use him, and he them, oedipal the slow dance,
their midnight, elections, (with money, a slight chance).
Final dong came too soon, ball over, not enjoyed,
messiah turned pariah, Gor(e)y hopes has destroyed.
copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved