“Politics is an organized, publically sanctioned amplification of the infantile itch to always have one’s own way.”

— Tom Robbins, “What Is Art and If We Know What Art Is, What Is Politics?”

DNA tends to hold sway,

in spite of goodness, Thomas J.

Alex Hamilton redressed his vows

through dallies with a lady’s wows.

A miracle dwelt in Grover C.

admitting extra paternity.

Roosevelt and Eisenhower

lent affairs a little power.

Kennedy and Johnson

walked their dogs around.

G. B. Senior held Jennie Fitzgerald

in many positions, so it’s been said.

Monica’s tacky blue dress

bent underneath the desk

left Bill with a what is

the real meaning of is?

U. S. Rep. A. Weiner sexted,

Mark Sandford re-flexed his

muscle, hiking into Argentina.

Patraeus disturbed B’s finest china.

Strom, like T. J., made Essie May,

brown as coffee, behind the fray.

The list expands past any one name;

Condit and Newt, Edwards and Cain,

Souder and Schrock, Ryan and Craig

sharing a boast, X-rated, not vague;

snug in tales of secret undies,

at whim of politic and sundries,

dare beg yet for your solemn votes,

barring flash news of undertows.