PRESIDENTS FOR SALE
Beware of bumper stickers selling colors with dollar signs. The colors don’t ever fade. The dollars evade. I found an old sticker stuck to my rump. It had the same old bump and the same old hump. Same old hand on the same old trump. There are only two kinds of candidates. Bandits on a legal run.
Legality is a state of mind. The elephant doesn’t ever forget. The donkey keeps the mule in stride from calling an ass an ass. There is a hair on the dog, if you can pluck it it may break the camels back. Keeps them all on track.
They run side by side. The winners are losers and the losers are won. A face blurts out from the magic glass box. The only thing you can’t feel is his saliva hitting your face. He slovenly spits at you while he tells you that he loves you. One for the left and one for the right. And one from the man who is always caught in the middle.
I, we, they, will keep them coming. Or keep them from coming. Keep them smiling and laughing and crying and paying. Mostly paying and praying, for God knows what comes next. Another policy, another cover. And then some more undercover.
He stands alone at his moment of glory on his most unholy pulpit. Honest, determined, concerned, dedicated with dollar signs glowing brightly. One in each eye. If you push him in the right direction, stuff his mouth with green meanies and keep his pretty toes clean, he will be your man. Your man on the scene. Your man for all reasons, with little if any logic. And George Laborworker opens his daily paper. The headline boldly reads ‘Presidents For Sale’. With a dollar fifty nine in his pocket he turns the page. The sports section is always on his side.
