Before writing about the early departure of Paul Ryan (R-WI) from what was once considered to be one of the most powerful positions in the country, I must confess to a love of poetry. April being National Poetry month, and in lieu of an editorial on Ryan, I have written a poem for Ryan. Those who are familiar with the great William Shakespeare will recognize my homage to his Sonnet 18, and those who are not so familiar with Shakespeare may find amusement in my political satire on Ryan’s hasty exit as Speaker of the House of Representatives.
Shall I Compare Thee, Paul Ryan, to Yellow Phlegm?
Thou appear more yellow and slimy than mucus.
Rough winds of tempest Donald J. do shake thee like a broken bud,
And leadership’s lease had none too strong a hold on you,
Sometime errand and alter boy of the GOP, beholden to Trump
And those money men for whom you said about Kompromat,
“What’s said in the [GOP] stays in the family,”
And “No leaks—all right,” remembering whom you serve.
Delicate man, your SUPER PAC connected to Russian money,
You “Charlatan of the House,” according to Esquire.
By chance, or nature’s course, your two-and-a-half-year tenure
As Speaker of the House comes crashing down as a house of cards,
Yet you state, “I have given this job everything I have,”
As you haul in a cool, $54 million in donor contributions
This year alone, meaning you have given little to nothing
While branding yourself a “Young Gun” and “policy detail man,”
Every line for line a blur, ballooning Federal budgets,
While enabling Devin Nunes (R-CA) to do his dirty work.
Your eternal cowardice shall not fade
Nor lose its stench in the threads of Time
So long as Men can read and record their history.
Your thank you to Trump on your way out the door,
Your hilarious self-comparison to the great Tip O’Neill,
Your prevarication and lies, your drunken dreams
Of a stripped bare and dirtied soul of an America
You sold for some, as yet, unknown Kompromat.
Nor shall death excuse you whilst you wander in
That desert through a long, deceitful life ahead and behind
In which your lack of conscience has consigned you.
Nancy Avery Dafoe