#77: Votin' Mite Be Impotin' (Politics)

Anyone Whose Tongue Can Waggle,
Gather Crowds . . . Berate, Bedraggle
All The Rest Afraid To Haggle,
Or Beat Them With A Mallet . . .
May Never Have To Fear To Straggle,
Lose The Goose Or Choose The Gaggle.
Hell, He's Likelier To Braggle . . .
His Name Onto The Ballot.

And so, there was this woman that,
I tell you, made us sick.
She ran a land of guilt and games . . .
her name was Polly Tick.

She really was a-something . . . seemed
to know, to grow, to lead . . .
but then, upon a closer look,
expressed no more than greed.

And Polly was a pretty lass.
She wore this honest coat.
The chances that she'd lie to us
seemed really quite remote.

I blame it on that dreaded bug,
the one that bit her thigh.
It sucked her blood, and turned her pale,
and blinded her good eye.

She said she was so sensitive that
she couldn't face a crowd.
She started giving speeches from
behind a curtained shroud.

Her words were always simple, and
the message clear enough,
"…everyone should join the team . . .
and all do better stuff."

And then, one day, we noticed that
she lied about her past . . .
and telling everyone she'd come
from crusty, upper class.

But most of all, she shocked us when
we watched her start to morph
into a weaselly, pin-striped guy,
whose hat might neatly dwarf . . .

her head and brain, and every sound
we ever heard her say.
I believe that Polly disappeared
before our eyes that day.

We heard a rumor, later on,
that one day, while on stage,
and in the middle of her speech,
she went into some rage.

Apparently, she broke a sweat,
and then her face was peeled
back and through the center 'til
her insides were revealed.

And sure enough, well, there it was,
that same blood-sucking tick.
I guess it got way deep inside,
and made her awfully sick.

It changed her looks and changed her mind,
and made her do bad things,
like selling peoples' futures to
buy her jewels and rings.

Funny though, that bug could talk . . .
and would articulate.
It stood right there, exposed as hell,
and yelled, "So what, hey wait!

Big deal - you know my secret!
And so, that ain't so bad.
Hell, you gave ol' Tricky Dick
and Duh-B'ya the Oval pad . . .

So, why can't I do just as they?
Hell, I can vote for war.
Call me 'Polly' or call me 'Tick' . . .
just vote for me some more."

All I said, when I finally found
Jo-Mima in the crowd,
was, "This gal really bugs me, man.
Let's look for our way out."

Well, that was all it took I guess,
'cause there and then we heard
the Buggy revving louder to
Polly's every word.

We never knew if that was dream,
or lesson figured out,
but to this day, I'm still not sure
what elections are about.

If the parties stopped their piling up
the heaps of dung and tripe,
and simply said what they stood for,
and halted all their gripe . . .

we'd have no use for insects, and
might even find a cure
for bug bites like the one that made
poor Polly so impure.