The President, let’s hope he thought,
While waiting for his time to come,
This Mission Church, superbly wrought,
Yet in a place that’s troublesome,
In Boston’s dodgy Roxbury,
Though where Ted wished the eulogy.
It’s where he liked to go and pray,
So typical of who he was:
A millionaire whose bald dismay
Of poverty he bore because,
Despite authority he flexed,
He felt no grander than the next.
Obama knew of streets this mean
Across the Charles at Harvard Law;
Southside Chicago’s where he’d seen,
As organizer, life as raw.
So one reached down, the other rose
To right the wrongs that hardships pose.
Ironically, noblesse oblige
Is what you might have thought from Ted;
A jiving, hip Barack besiege
Their Senate colleagues, but instead
It happened quite the other way
With Irish blarney holding sway.
So as the August recess ends
And Congressmen come back to town,
Barack’s approval score descends.
He needs to learn to sit them down,
Cajole and drink more beer as we
Already saw eye-catchingly.
He owes it to both Ted and us
To usher through health-care reform,
Above all, after town-hall fuss
To shout down, scare and misinform,
Regardless of the public’s need,
To satisfy providers’ greed.
Six hundred for an office call,
Five hundred for an ambulance,
Insurance coverage, if at all,
As low as ten percent, perchance.
Procedures such as MRI
With limits somewhere in the sky.
Like laborers in parking lots,
Some doctors lurk in ICUs
To pick up work, keep up their yachts,
When woozy patients can’t refuse.
I dislike casting such a pall.
It’s just I’ve seen and heard it all.
Thus, Mr. President, if need,
Take off the gloves and make a fist.
Oft times the other side takes heed
Of only threats to get one’s gist.
Not always in majestic flights
Civility yields civil rights.
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