Bray after bray,
A-drone on the Hill,
The men and the women’s voices shriek—
Their purpose is “nil.”
Near nobody wants to know them
’cause they reek, being full of stool.
So folks have to kink their nostrils,
Stifle stool on the Hill,
Hope the wind will die down;
If it rises, there’s dread
’cause they’re turd-filled and brown.

Smell every day—
Dreck D.C. crowd:
These men and women, unalloyed caca, don’t make us proud.
Near nobody wants to hear them
Or their sounds, the hissing of snakes. . .
Puffed coterie, grotesque blowfish,

Butt-dumped stools on the Hill—
See their polls going down. . .
Worse than lice that have fed
On pubes at tool or mound.

No, nobody seems to like them
’cause all know that they’re gonna screw
Them when there’s time off from stealing.

How’d these fools gain the Hill?
Why’d we vote for these clowns?
Got no eyes in our heads?
Post-voting, naught but frowns.

Oh, frowns at clowns who’re brown, we’ve found.

In campaigns we listen to them—
It is we who’re the fools
When we like them?

But stools on the Hill
Arrive in D.C. town.
Fine ideas in their head. . .
Acton’s axiom* abounds.

Oh, ’bounds, abounds, abounds. . . .


*“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”—John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton, first Baron Acton (1834–1902)