THE DIMINISHING POLITICS OF SENATOR LES S. MOORE
He promises, he pleads, he plies.
No matter that his truths are lies.
He has the future in his eyes.
Exuding witty, city charm,
he claims just once will do no harm
and soon she’s leaning on his arm.
Says he, My sweet, I know not where
I’ve seen such breasts or silky hair.
Your very breath refines the air.
Cream and peaches is your skin.
I die of love. Our souls are kin.
Of course the goose will vote him in.
This is, of course, a metaphor.
You know who senators pimp for,
who screws both ends of either/or.
Where there’s a con, there is a shill.
Who rides the jet? Who slogs the hill?
Who’s doing great? Who’s faring ill?
Who reaps the kale our country grows,
that shiny green in endless rows?
Who sells their souls? Who owns? Who owes?
Behold the Politic Noblesse
they smile and wave, they scam and bless.
The rich get more, the poor get less.
Each self-excusing sneaky cheat,
just grins when life turns up the heat
and shrugs: Hey folks, I gotta eat.
—from Rattle #44, Summer 2014
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Janice D. Soderling: “The impetus for this poem was, sadly, the US government shutdown of 2013. Although John and Jane Doe were trying to recover from the recession, a majority of Washington politicians declined to do the job they were elected to do. I am a huge admirer of Sinclair Lewis, whom everyone should be reading in these confused times. I write a lot of poetry and stories with a political edge because I think it is my duty. I also write the other kind.”
