Claude Monet, "House of Parliament Sun," 1903
These towers smell like stale perspiration
Liberty multiplies anxiety;
Where the destiny of a stunned nation
Is made, efficiency is piety
Frantic whispers sound to us like music
Clutching pearls becomes professional sport
The sunburned minds of the heat stroked public
Are bound to our sultry bromides distort
When all the dishes are mediocre
The menu must be radically changed
When each card you are dealt is a joker
The game is rigged and must be rearranged
Summertime, and government's uneasy
Weighing lesser evils makes one queasy
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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