SEX AND POLITICS IN THE HOUSE OF NEPTUNE >From troubled waters tropical,

SEX AND POLITICS IN THE HOUSE OF NEPTUNE

>From troubled waters tropical, there comes a twice-told tale
of Candidate who sealed his fate by hoisting leeward sail.

The Monkey Business, U.S.S., embarked for southern sea
with Presidential hopeful and the ghost of Kopechne.

Commander Hart ran full ahead, front-running Democrat,
as spectral crew conspired to unleash the coup d’etat.

Below the decks, beyond the ears of Colorado’s son,
the rabble roused her passions and produced the smoking gun.

When, up from steamy bulkheads rose the philandering throng
and scandal-ridden mutineers debuted debunking song:

“We’re pirates of the penance, and our anchors we’ve aweighed,”
sang shadowy alumni, promiscuously waylaid.

Commander Hart stood at the helm, preoccupied with bills.
He didn’t hear the burlesque cheer echo from Wilbur Mills.

He failed to catch the chantey in the wind of campaign credo
of embrittled peanut farmer with the cardiac libido.

He didn’t hear a single note of consonant or vowel
from buccaneer of yesteryear: one Adam Clayton Powell.

The tunes of undercover trysts rang in this darkest hour,
of Kennedy and FDR and D. D. Eisenhower.

But, Gary Hart ignored the songs his ghostly crew encroached,
his sights instead fixed up ahead, where Ship Of State approached.

The MB listed hard to port, when crew with mighty heft,
heaved-ho their captain overboard, bipartisanly left.

The Monkey Business sailed away as crew called back in jest:
“You’ll float no better than our worst and no worse than our best.”

Now hides this private President in public camouflage,
whose candidacy came and went through midnight ship mirage.

The sister ships now set adrift? Not Washington, DC,
but Flying women Dutchmen, christened Jones and Lewinsky.

Let’s not forget the Flowers lying low in drying docks,
or any other mermaid who’s seduced him from the rocks.

Come, second-hand First Ladies, filing briefs of loco motions,
and bide your time, ‘til time abides his briefs upon the oceans.

In Presidential whoopee, (future candidates take note)
if extra-spousal sailing is the masthead of your boat?

Then, cruise the far horizons, leaving public land pristine,
and dive beneath the surface in an off-shore submarine.

Lest history repeat itself, again with flag unfurled,
and, set adrift, you’ll ride the rift of White House waterworld.



Copyright 1998 B. Elwin Sherman. www.toolkitinparadise.com All rights reserved.