Sire or Madam,
A devout admirer presumes to lay, discrete
With characteristic propriety at your feet,
The following pages �bout church and state
Which now await, Your judgement and their fate.
Tis a story to be told
About a past leader, most bold.
He captured the Highest Office of the Nation
While engaged in the politics of desecration.
Now retired from his place of sin,
He�s in Harlem amidst his kin.
Like a bad penny, he will return
Given the opportunity, his enemies to burn.
In New York, we find our solitary ex-leader
Lounging homeward by himself sans tether.
He has only one good ear, having parted
With the other to vagrant Republicans assorted.
The ear�s all he lost but some may exclaim
His term in office brought more than just shame.
In the course of his Washington Town rambles
He left it there; tho his private house be in shambles.
Luck would have it,
Party faithful saved him, it is writ.
Some would say he has always been known
To turn a deaf ear on interest not his own.
He leads a roving, gentlemanly, vagabond kind of life,
Somewhat, answering to the call of money, not his wife.
A Wall Street brokerage house brings him pleasure
Now that he calls New York home he seeks new treasure.
He leaves his lodgings every morning at a certain hour,
Throws himself upon the town, (perhaps foregoing an early shower).
Passing through his day in some manner quite satisfactory
To himself, and regularly appears at the door of his benefactory.
Later on he returns to his own house again at night,
Like the mysterious master of Gil Blas, with the waning of the light.
He is a free-and-easy, careless, indifferent kind of animal,
Having a very large acquaintance among other scoundrel.
Whom he rather knows by sight, than conversation niceties,
As he seldom troubles himself to stop and exchange civilities;
But goes grunting down the street, creating scandal
In the shape of his office-leavings and other offal.
His tail, being a very short one, for his old enemy,
The "Mysterious Right," have been at that in times past many.
They have left him hardly enough to swear by
In the swill and mud that represent his private pigsty.
He is in every respect a democrat piggling,
Going wherever he please, and mingling
With the best society, that money can buy
On an equal, if not superior footing; He�s that kind of guy.
For ever one makes way when he appears,
And the haughtiest give him the attention for they have fears.
Opponents and weaklings have met with ill fate
This swine is not one who you wish to have hate.
He's a great talker - a philosopher, Constitutional scholar and married to,
The new Senator with clout, to mention a few.
Sometimes, indeed, you may see his smallish eyes behind glasses
Twinkling on slaughtered friends, whose carcasses are mired in morasses.
.
Garnished in the daily press; they slide beneath the mire,
But he grunts out, "Such is life; all flesh is pork!" There�s smoke but no fire.
Then he buries his nose in the filth again, and waddles down the street,
Comforting himself with the reflection that there is one less snout at the trough to eat.
The less to share life's glories, at any rate.
But that which is his own predestined fate.
To New York�s public view be shown.
He is the city's own poor white trash it�s known.
This pig. Ugly brute he is, having, for the most part, easy recognized features,
Nature creates only so many of these loathsome creatures.
Flaccid face, bags under eyes, brows and lids, skin spotted with unwholesome blotches
And such a peaked snout, above which fit the �forementioned eyes that watches.
He was never attended upon in early life, or fed, or driven, or caught in any way,
But was thrown upon his own resources, and become the whore he is today.
His mother admitted to the trailer-park life from which he sprang
And he buried her like all the others who brought disdain.
He knows where he lives, much better than anybody, especially his wife,
At this hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see him roaming back to another life.
Towards bed, with whom or what?
Better to know the answer not.
After feasting at the public trough in his own way these many years,
Occasionally, after he has over-indulged himself, and brought himself to tears.
Or he has been much worried by the press,
Then he trots homeward, like a prodigal son returning to his nest.
This is a rare case of perfect self-possession and self-reliance,
Quickly forgetting his own indulgences and dalliances.
His movable composure, being his foremost attribute
Assuring his public that �he feels their pain�, this willy brute.
Home. This is the place - these narrow canyons, filled with wealth,
Diverging to the right and left, and reeking everywhere of dirt and filth.
Many other politicians do here in dwell.
Ever wonder how the voters, walking upright ignore the smell?
Take care where you step, he's here.
And there is more -- his bride to fear.
They�re protected by their like-kind who have planned
To make this Country into a Communal land.
With apologies to Charles Dickens.
Respectfully,
F. J. Mahtrow
December 29, 2001
.
The following is for those who prefer prose or would like to compare to the piece by Dickens.
****
"Sire,
A DEVOUT admirer of church and state presumes to lay the following pages with characteristic propriety at your feet."(1)
Here is our solitary ex-leader lounging homeward by himself. He has only one good ear, having parted with the other to vagrant Republicans in the course of his Washington rambles. But he gets on very well without it; (Some would say he has always turned a deaf ear on interest not his own.) and, leads a roving, gentlemanly, vagabond kind of life, somewhat answering to that of a Wall Street brokerage house now that he calls New York home. He leaves his lodgings every morning at a certain hour, throws himself upon the town, gets through his day in some manner quite satisfactory to himself, and regularly appears at the door of his own house again at night, like the mysterious master of Gil Blas. He is a free-and-easy, careless, indifferent kind of animal, having a very large acquaintance among other scoundrels of the same character, whom he rather knows by sight than conversation, as he seldom troubles himself to stop and exchange civilities, but goes grunting down the street, creating scandal and small talk of the city in the shape of his office-leavings and other offal, and permitting no tail but that which is his own - it being a very short one, for his old enemies, the "Mysterious Right," have been at that too, and have left him hardly enough to swear by. He is in every respect a democrat pig, going wherever he please, and mingling with the best society, on an equal, if not superior footing; for ever one makes way when he appears, and the haughtiest gives him the attention as he demands it. He's a great talker - a philosopher, and seldom moved, unless by those before mentioned. Sometimes, indeed, you may see his smallish eye twinkling on slaughtered friends, whose carcasses garnish the daily press; but he grunts out, "such is life; all flesh is pork!" buries his nose in the mire again, and waddles down the gutter, comforting himself with the reflection that there is one snout the less to share life's glories, at any rate.
He is the city's own pwt, this pig. Ugly brute he is, having, for the most part, flaccid face, bags under his eyes, brows and lids like an old horsehair trunk, skin spotted with unwholesome blotches and such a peaked snout, that if he could be persuaded to sit for his profile, nobody would recognize it for his Presidential likeness. He was never attended upon, or fed, or driven, or caught, but was thrown upon his own resources in early life, and become preternaturally knowing in consequence. He knows where he lives, much better than anybody could tell him. At this hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see him roaming towards bed, feasting at the public trough in his own way to the last. Occasionally, after he has over-indulged himself, or has been much worried by the press, he trots shrinkingly homeward, like a prodigal son; but this is a rare case ^� perfect self-possession and self-reliance, and immovable composure, being his foremost attributes.
This is the place - these narrow canyons, diverging to the right and left, and reeking everywhere of dirt and filth. Many other politicians live here. Do they ever wonder how the public, the voters, walking upright ignore the smell?
Take care where you step, he's here.
CD
****
Dickens wrote:
"Here is a solitary swine lounging homeward by himself. He has only one ear, having parted with the other to vagrant dogs in the course of his city rambles. But he gets on very well without it; and leads a roving, gentlemanly, vagabond kind of life, somewhat answering to that of our clubmen at home. He leaves his lodgings every morning at a certain hour, throws himself upon the town, gets through his day in some manner quite satisfactory to himself, and regularly appears at the door of his own house again at night, like the mysterious master of Gil Blas. He is a free-and-easy, careless, indifferent kind of pig, having a very large acquaintance among other pigs of the same character, whom he rather knows by sight than conversation, as he seldom troubles himself to stop and exchange civilities, but goes grunting down the kennel, turning up the news and small talk of the city in the shape of cabbage-stalks and offal, and bearing no tails but his own - which is a very short one, for his old enemies, the dogs, have been at that too, and have left him hardly enough to swear by. He is in every respect a republican pig, going wherever he please, and mingling with the best society, on an equal, if not superior footing; for ever one makes way when he appears, and the haughtiest give him the wall if he prefer it. He is a great philosopher, and seldom moved, unless by the dogs before mentioned. Sometimes, indeed, you may see his small eye twinkling on a slaughtered friend, whose carcass garnishes a butcher's doorpost; but he grunts out, "such is life; all flesh is pork!" buries his nose in the mire again, and waddles down the gutter, comforting himself with the reflection that there is one snout the less to anticipate stray cabbage-stalks, at any rate.
They are the city; scavengers, these pigs. Ugly brutes they are, having, for the most part, scanty; brown backs, like the lids of old horsehair trunks, spotted with unwholesome black blotches. They have long, gaunt legs, too, and such peaked snouts, that if one of them could be persuaded to sit for his profile, nobody would recognize it for a pig's likeness. They are never attended upon, or fed, or driven, or caught, but are thrown upon their own resources in early life, and become preternaturally knowing in consequence. Every pig knows where he lives, much better than anybody could tell him. At this hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see them roaming towards bed by scores, eating their way to the last. Occasionally, some youth among them who has over-eaten himself, or has been much worried by dogs, trots shrinkingly homeward, like a prodigal son; but this is a rare case ^� perfect self-possession and self-reliance, and immovable composure, being their foremost attributes...
This is the place ^� these narrow ways, diverging to the right and left, and reeking everywhere of dirt and filth... Many of those pigs live here. Do they ever wonder why their masters walk upright in lieu of going on all-fours? And why they talk instead of grunting."
***
ref:
(1) The book of parodies promoting Warren's Blacking begins with this introduction.Warreniana: With Notes, Critical and Explanatory, By the Editor of a Quarterly Review; William Gifford, Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, 1851.
For more on parody see: http://users.ox.ac.uk/~scat0385/warren.html
American Notes, The Works of Charles Dickens, New Century Library, Thomas Nelson and Sons, London, 1904. Vol. IX, pp 97
****
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