It's the Truth, Stupid

Among us who cannot forget
Our rowdy pranks from years ago?
The answer’s nearly all, I bet,
Although we’d just as soon forgo
Reminders of what brats we were,
And leave such larks at most a blur.

Redemption comes if we progress
And get done much more good than harm
So with those near us coalesce;
Remorse within as well disarm
In hopes that whom we’ve sinned against
No longer go about incensed.

Transgression comes if you deny
That dredged-up incidents occurred,
Like Romney’s don't-remember lie
About which prep pals give their word
That they composed a human snare
When Mitt cut off a gay’s bleached hair.

He says he’s sorry if he did,
But memory isn’t what’s at stake.
If we, he thinks, are his to kid,
The country should be wide awake
To someone who might think he’s glib
But hasn’t even learned to fib.


Mitt Romney’s Cranbrook School song:

Forty years on, when afar and asunder 
Parted are those who are singing today, 
When you look back, and forgetfully wonder 
What you were like in your work and your play, 
Then, it may be, there will often come o’er you, 
Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song.
Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, 
Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along, 
Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! 

Ha!

Forty-seven years, afar and asunder,
Perjured is one who is running today.
When he looks back to a wondrous blunder,
What did he think of his monstrous horseplay?
Then it might be, there sometimes come o’er him
Glimpses of bullying, which he denies;
Visions of cruelty make his odds more slim,
Echoes of doubt in constituents’ eyes.
Own up! Own up! Own up!