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Shrimp 'n Grits

Twas da night befo’ Votin’

With much seasonal joviality and response to the following poem published in Shrimp ‘n Grits two years ago, we thought it worth repeating, albeit with a few timely updates to include the new faces on Charleston City Council. Regrettably, although a few names have changed, the lack of individual intellect and courage befitting a worthy Council member remains a constant burden for the citizens of this fair city to suffer.

Twas da night befo’ votin’, ‘n all t’ru Joe’s City,
All ‘e cronies be’n smoozin’, ‘n dat be’n da pitty.

Dem land deal be’n stash in dat brief case fuh tot’in,
Jus’ know’in dat Council dun rubb’uh stomp wid dey votin’.

‘E council ben sittin’ all smug in dey places’
Wid visions ‘o pay-backs jus’ dance fo’ da faces.
Da Fruit Mon ‘n ‘e closet, wid Joe ‘n ‘e palace,
Be’n jis’ sett’n’up fo’ ta do some mo’ malice.
When up at dat Fish Tank dey rose such ‘a cry,
Joe sprang from ‘e throne, cus’ no tourist be’n by.
Away ta da ‘Quarium ‘e flew up on DASH,
Rip open da checkbook ‘n look fo’ de cash.
Da dust on dem seat on dat be’n close-up IMAX
Ben bad news fo’da fishes, less dey git sum mo’ tax.

When what to ‘e beady little eye be’n fuh sho’,
But ‘e own personal rickshaw jus’ roll up tuh da do’.
Den dat little old Mayor, ‘e lets out wit’s da wale,
‘Cause ‘e be’n jus’ now ‘fraid de’Quarium gwine fail.
Mo’ raspy dan harpies, his curses did shriek,
Wid da strutt’in ‘n sputt’in tuh make Council meek.
“Now Wilson! Now Waring!, now Evans ‘n White!
On Gallant! On Morinelli who be’n high as duh kite!
To da top ‘o da stairs, fo’ ta fill City Hall,
Now vote my way! Vote my way! Vote my way- all!”
As ‘e beats back dem few, whose votes ‘e can’t buy,
When ‘e meet wit de truth, ‘e turn tuh da sly.
Den up tut da Cou’t House ‘e pettifogger dun flew,
With ‘a fist full ‘o law suits fo’ Charlton tuh do.

‘N den ‘n da inklin’, Joe’s look fo’ ‘e proof,
Tuh cover ‘e tracks f’um ‘e latest big goof.
As ‘e jurk back ‘e neck f’um da nudder big blunder,
‘E jump from ‘e rickshaw ‘n fell right on under.
‘E be’n covered in “Hos’ Poop” f’um ‘e chin tuh ‘e knees,
‘N look like da preacher jus’ cut da cheese.
Big “Buckets ‘o Chickin’” ‘e pull f’um ‘e pack,
‘N look like da cheap suit jus’ fall f’um de rack.
‘E eye dat man White who jus’grin like da Ferret,
As Mallard be’n look fo’ da camera ta swear at.
‘E dumped out da “Po’k Ribs” all obuh da street
‘N hopes dat e’ cronies don’ vote wid’ da feet.
‘E broad little ears dey ben as red as da herrin,
‘N flap like da pigeon when ‘e start tuh swearin’.
E’ look shriveled ‘n slump like da Piccolo Elf,
‘N mos’ liberal enuf tuh vote twice fo ‘e self.
Wit’ ‘a flash ‘o ‘e eye ‘n ‘a snap ‘o ‘e neck’
‘E look like ‘a gambler wit jus’ ‘a ‘half-deck.
Den ‘e croak out da speech dat be’n filled wit ‘e work,
Cause ‘e tink all dem voters jus’ be da dumb jerk.
Wit ‘e pointy little finger held up tuh ‘e nose,
‘E look like Napoleon, ‘sept ‘e ain’t got no clothes.

E’ sprang ta ‘e rickshaw, n’ tuh Council did whistle,
‘N away da all flew like Sp’lato Clowns on da missile.

But ‘e let out a scream as ‘e passed north ‘o Broad,
“Da taxpayers don’t know dat I’m jis’ ‘a Big Fraud!”

With my humblest literary apology to Clement Clark Moore

Lee Walton

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