The Scab Picker
There she stands so prim and pretty,
Never would you think her hands get dirty.
When she thinks no one's looking,
She'll scratch the itch that's been provoking.
It's a little round spot that has festered,
Just the type that a nail can pester.
Time has caused it to grow a skin,
A scab, it's called; is coverin.
A bit red and swollen too,
Where's the spot that needs tending to?
On arms, legs and areas, we're too polite to mention,
She's got more spots that need attention.
A fold of cloth blinds her sight,
Of things that live in the dark of night.
Yet attention's justly given,
To each itch, a scratch is driven.
Cultures that on the body grow,
Create havoc wherever they go.
Free living organisms and such,
Divert her interest and take time, too much.
A Goddess she is for
sure,
How else to explain her ability to endure,
Onslaught from pest without numbers,
Growing while the body slumbers.
Her Balance has shifted with weight of inane Laws,
Still she remains the final arbitrator of cause.
When all else fails to bring to senses,
The right hand holds something to encourage mending fences.
But what's the cause of this new irritation?
It's a plague that infects the nation.
Which spot to scratch first, is her problem,
Seems new ones arise daily, on a whim.
Governm't, Politicians and Special Interest
without end,
Discover new problems for her to mend.
Not that these three cause all her troubles,
Politically
Correct jim-jams worry her with nature's foibles.
Abortion, Birth Defects, Education, Poverty, Industrial Spew,
Pollution, Cancer, Old Age, Debt, Death; just to name a few.
Let one scab be removed and three others appear,
Well known to the press; time's of the essence and so dear.
What's the solution for the lady's distress?
Perhaps it's time to reign in the press.
Grasping for a bit of news, they raise the problem,
To heights unknown, and out of breath, justify ^�em.
Just to fill a bit of space (either time or paper) they will
pontificate,
On what's the issue of this particular date.
Tomorrow's a different tune,
To be played in the darkness of moon.
Facts are but pawns in this checkered game,
Attention's the Queen that captures fame.
Let slip a bit of journalist
malaise,
Call it news, if you please.
Lies are just puffery that's
been caught,
Without them, their stories come to naught.
Attacks on subjects not Correct (according to their twisted views),
Are quite justified since they can hide behind; "That's News."
Sorting facts from well written fiction,
That obscures the real source of all this friction.
The fair one pauses to scratch what itches,
Over ruling special interest of the Sons of b______.
Blinded by the fold of cloth.
It's there to spare her sight of the onslaught,
Of societal demands for her service.
After all she is called -- "Justice."
But what of Liberty and Justice for all?
Liberty's a Natural Right, is
the call,
For anyone to do what they please, ^�s the old saw,
Unless judged to be prohibited by Force or by Law.
****
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