It is an ancient Governor,
Who, at the wedding feast
Of Piper Palin, grips the arm
Of a Republican high priest.
The priest quick blanches, stark with fright;
His lips go ghastly pale.
“I fear thy skinny hand,” quoth he.
“I hate thy gruesome tale.”
Whereat the ancient Governor
Replies in steely tones,
“Listen you will to my tale, until
Its dread doth invade thy bones.
I was a Solon, great and good
(So should we all fain be!) —
But idly did I twin my ‘Self’
To John F. Kennedy.
O cursed` be that awe-full name!
I acquired his roving eye,
Whence women – whom my fancy struck —
O’er me might wail and sigh.”
The priest crieth, “Stop! I’ll brook no more!
Thy tale is so oft-told,
That men crouched here do quake in fear
Of aping your sins so bold.”
The ancient Governor grows now stern.
“The People have spoken loud.
They cherish not our Candidates,
You men of your ‘virtue’ proud.”
The priest looks down – “Carry on,” saith he —
For he kens the diamond truth:
Whispers of hypocrisy
Are plague in the voting booth.
And so the ancient Governor,
Resumeth his tale of woe,
As if to cauterize the wound
His Party doth vainly show.
“Emails! Innocent and pure!
With such my doom began;
Eftsoons their subject lines did turn
To Maria’s golden tan,
And to her wond’rous fleshly globes,
And to her celestial kiss,
And to her curves, and to her soul —
Thus born: my desperate bliss!
Short-lived my bliss, short-lived indeed,
My lies compounded so:
Tall tales of Appalachian Trails
Vanished in the truth’s warm glow.
Humility – I’ve learned it hard.
Take heed, stout friends of mine:
On my gray headstone wags will scrawl —
He shagged the Argentine!”
* * *
The wedding feast went forth as planned;
The high priest took his place.
He nothing thought of aught he’d heard
Of a sad man’s sad disgrace.