Christie at the Bridge, a poem.

The outlook was quite brilliant for the Jersey Rs that day,
The polls stood two to one with barely six weeks left to play
But Chris Christie came to town and asked for an embrace,
A sickly silence fell upon the Fort Lee’s mayor’s face.

And now vindictive rage came hurtling through the air,
And Christie’s staff looked at their phones in haughty grandeur where
With fury in their fingers and vengenace in their eyes,
“Traffic problems in Fort Lee!” went out the hue and cry.

There was ease in Christie’s manner as the road closed lane by lane,
There was pride in Christie’s swagger as he deflected all the blame.
And when, responding to the cheers, he blustered to the press,
No stranger in the crowd doubted that he could clean this mess.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“He did it! Christie did it!” accused press from their stands;
But few would dare believe him, then Christie raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Christie’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; the rumors he bemoaned;
And yet the rumors swirled, and the feds came to take a look;
But Christie still ignored it, Chris Christie is no crook.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout.
But there’s no joy in Trenton–mighty Christie has struck out.

Casey at the Bat

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