The legend lives on from Foggy Bottom down
Of the big swamp they call Washingtoonie
The swamp, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of mail thirty-thousand or more
Than the Hillary C weighed empty
And a Big Dog, it’s true, with a bone to be chewed
But the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the Democratic side
Bathed in blue from a mill in Wisconsin
Vanquished, it had, Chafee, Marty and Jim
Barely singed by some grapeshot from Bernie
It grimaced and mocked as the other boat rocked
When it left fully loaded from Cleveland
Yet later that month when the ship's bell rang
Could it be a north wind they'd been feelin'?
Began but a whisper, ghostly Slavic a sound
Lush balalaikas seemed to be strumming
But onward they plowed, the captain so proud
Glass ceiling, she pledged, it’s a-tumbling
Yet a sulfurous haze in the Autumn days
T’was darkness, a seer said, and foreboding,
So passion escaped and love had to wait
As the gales of November came courting.
We gathered on deck, stared mutely and numb
First Tar-heels, Ohio, the Cheeseheads
Dusk turned to dark, out sprang a groan
No Sunshine, no Motown, or Keystone,
The captain cried out that survival’s in doubt
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night as her lights lost their sight
The wreck of the Hillary C. became final
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When agony turns hours to years?
Pundits all say she’d have made Ches-peake Bay
But for Wiki, and Vladi, and Comey
Fate’s a cruel mistress, yet hindsight is plain
The helmsman’s myopia looming
And all that remains is the loser’s refrain
Why didn’t I see that one coming?
Lake Huron’s drum rolls, Superior sings
Midwest graveyard’s cold tune of yearning
Old Michigan steams of politico’s dreams
Thirst for office unquenched but still burning
And farther below, Lake Ontario
Takes in what Erie can send her
Blind pride will go as all mariners know
When the gales of November remembered
In musty old halls in New York they prayed
In chapels in Javits and Brooklyn
The church bell chimed 'til it rang one-thousand times
For each dream on the Hillary Clinton
The legend lives on from Foggy Bottom on down
Of the big swamp they call Washingtoonie
The swamp, it’s said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.
Michael Liss (Moderate Moderator)
