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
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