To Edgar, with gratitude.
Men of power and their members are a duo to remember
As they wrangle this November with the monster at the door.
It came creeping, slowly seeping as the President sat tweeting
Out the puss that was leaking from his mental canker sore,
This horror briskly rapping, gently tapping at our chamber door,
Dressed in a suit and nothing more.
“Is it truth or is it lie,” asks a man as he decries
What every woman knows by sight, for she has seen it all before––
That these “malicious rumors” truly are malignant tumors
From a system’s fetid sewers rotting at our core.
So let’s sit in courage now and endeavor to explore
The monster knocking, knocking at our chamber door.
It is normal to admire what one has come to desire
As one sits by the fire dreaming dreams of true amour.
One imagines gently basking in a soft light everlasting
Whose warmth is so contrasting to the loneliness of yore.
And in chambers dark and dreary it is normal to want more
Tis a fact today, tomorrow, and forevermore.
But we are slowing noting that we, in all our doting,
Have raised a child fond of gloating behind our cellar door,
Who takes and seizes what he wants and what he pleases
Free from all dear entreaties, thanks to his masculine allure.
And he is sure in his position, for he both hums and writes the score—
This man for whom less always, always equals Moore.
He lives a life of Wein and Roses, unaware of the threat he poses,
For the world to him is made of trophies to acquire and to store.
Before him goes an air of foreboding, for he dreams of having, knowing
And in secret taking, groping the angel named Lenore.
And now he stands in the darkness brooding, waiting, at our door
For us to tell the craven: “nevermore.”
The Red Thread 