OTHERS charge me with political hackdom
Always making a deal, so never seeing
Deeper down the machine than where the money
Pays for tickets and smiling campaign pictures
My myself in the front page paper, godlike
Looking out from a massive autumn landslide.
Once, when driving with paid-for drivers license,
an unplanned accident led to my office,
Through the papers, a few more deaths, a scandal,
Prosecutors rebuke the old boys network.
Some leaks came from upstate, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was worked there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. Who sold those tickets?
Truth? Some pressured wage slaves? For once, then, something.