Each year before Election Day,

pols with flesh to press

stride down my sleepy street

and prey on voter ignorance.

 

“Nice lawn,” the

vanguard’s prone to say

and never seems to guess

that in late autumn’s heat,

when hacking greenery,

my sweat reeks intolerance.

 

They cackle like jays

on ways to serve me best

in earnest words that eat my brain,

a verbalizing pestilence.

 

My mind begins to stray

from claims they’ll meet the test

and stand up to the heat

of Left’s extravagance.

 

With composure cast away,

I tell them I detest

their party’s rich elite,

then plead deliverance.

 

Once free their empty claims,

I turn back to molest

my lawn with freshened spite,

when the righteous utterance

of a Liberal’s bleating bray

annuls my short reprieve.

 

They will not let me rest,

these pols from Left and Right,

all bred on arrogance.