So — soon he will proclaim his innocence
of being what he is. I guess that all
along, though, his projected, spittled sense
of injury has said this. Any call
for justice wounds his ego, we all know.
How many of us — we, among the small
of wallet, large of conscience — would be slow
to wound that softness, had we but the chance?
We have but tongues to lash with, lungs to blow
away his blather — merest words to lance
his pustulence. His boils. His vast balloon
of speculative wealth. Our words would glance
off ears made dumb by bullet. That old tune
of "I am not a crook!" will follow soon.
Cheers . . .
