Uncle Stan Walden (1892-1960) wrote this poem years ago about the politics of the day. I guess some things never change. I did a bit of editing but the great ideas in this poem are all Uncle Stan’s. I am sure most of us would agree with the sentiments herein.
Every fourth year in the U S of A
A presidential election gets underway.
From past experience we know to prepare
For bunkum aplenty and lots of hot air.
From May to November we are sure to dwell
In a loud, obnoxious oratorical hell
Until after Election Day is o’er
And the mud stops flying for four years more.
Then where do the political prophets go,
Those chosen by God ( at least they think so)?
Once we pass through the voting booth door
We seldom hear from them anymore.
I imagine their next four years are spent
Developing lungs to such an extent
So that when time for an election again has come,
They hope to be able to bawl us dumb.
We live in the land of the free, we say
Yet the IRS and the USDA
Are here to tell us how we should live
And how much to the government we must give.
They promise you anything before November
but after the vote they can’t seem to remember.
And we are lucky if, though they promised us more,
We are left with as much as we had before.
To elect a politician with highest hope
And later find out he’s just a dope
Is a terrible letdown for us all
Our hopes so high crash as they fall.
I sometimes wonder if rule by king
Weren’t, after all, a safer thing.
He might from birth a dumbbell be,
‘T would to his subjects be a certainty.
We wouldn’t have to take a chance
On all the candidates in the political dance.
We’d put an end and call a halt
To the liberal cha cha and conservative waltz.
Fellow Americans, there’s hope ahead,
When things are so bad, so far in the red,
Don’t cry or despair or mutter a curse
It’s bound to get better; it couldn’t get worse.