Columnist:
They line up for an audience now;
To be first up, they fight.
To Tom D lobbyists kowtow,
Try to get him upright.

He dips, he's a flaccid queen.
They pay for his black arts.
Their lips lean, his *ss to clean,
He airs noses with farts.

They find a room and close the door,
And everybody smiles.
Boys will ream boys off the House floor,
Too bad he's got piles.

Their tips ream this flaccid queen,
Braying like a tart.
He nips the bephallused team,
His fangs as sharp as darts.

The bagman gets his gold and swag
And many generous "loans."
And all that this lipsy queen must do
Is commune with their bones.

Their work is all done, but to him
It's more than just a tithe.
Their heads he seeks, his fingers clutch,
He wants again to writhe.

Now whips beat the flaccid queen--
They pay before they start.
Like "Gypsy"--that is, Rose Lee--
He's dressed to play the part.


Under[world]ture