Saturday, May 16, 2009

Come the Next Cold Morning

A polling place by E. Benjamin Andrews (1912)
Come the Next Cold Morning
Senator who? Oh right, him.

Once every six years or so

right in the mid of fall

people queue in freezing lines

to heed their civic call.

Folks here in Connecticut

again see something odd,

a name there on the ballot,

long-lost Senator Dodd.

They wait at dawn and shiver

while morn ascends the sky.

They shake their heads and murmur,

“Almost forgot that guy”.

'Cause there's just two occasions

his name's heard 'round their shoals,

There's a brand new scandal or

it's time to hit the polls.

For almost thirty years with

no remorse or regret

he's raided their cookie jar

and hoped that they'd forget.

He'd lay low and speak softly

until the time was right

then he'd sneak his hand right in

and snitch himself a bite.

Like taking deals from lenders

immersed in the extreme

Freddy Mac and Fannie Mae

socialist ponzi scheme.

Then pointing blaming fingers

doling defaming thanks

at every “guilty party”

but his and Barney Frank's.

Like public keelhauling

of so-called vile execs

who got an “unfair bonus”

when he pushed through the checks.

Like other checks forgotten

and bounced in '92

The House Bank and Post Office

main “patron” was him too.

But he's smug and protected

while he votes the right way,

follows his marching orders,

heeds Obama's, “OBEY”.

He lasted thirty years now

with scandal, blame, and fuss.

He's representing someone,

it sure the hell ain't us.

So come the next cold morning

when the polls have a queue

and folks shake their waiting heads,

they will know what to do.

A thing a long time coming.

A thing too long, by God.

A civil good thee riddance

to their Senator Dodd.