Quel Monstre!

As one of sixteen Francophiles
Throughout the whole United States,
I cringe at what brings ready smiles
To those I-told-you-so ingrates
Who owe the French for what most long:
A grasp of (wo)men, wine and song.

I speak of Dominique Strauss-Kahn,
Director of the IMF,
Who stepped down as though put upon,
Instead of decency gone deaf
In fact, a crime no more complex
Than coerced, kneel-down oral sex.

What makes a man feel it’s all right
To so abuse a hotel maid?
Position, power, money might.
I can’t, though, picture jurors swayed.
His perp walks that the French deplore.
Foreshadow, I hope, what’s in store.

Parisian license, I advise
In lieu of puritanic strain
Strauss-Kahn, however, I despise
As someone we won’t see again,
In U.S. prison till his end;
The Guinean woman on the mend.