Debra J. Saunders
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Fools -- who fought his plan to dot downtown with sleek towers

And wield the sword of eminent domain to pummel Revelli Tire into a parking lot.

On a starry night, his lusty spearman Jacques Barzaghi -- no Nestor he --

Dipped his oar poorly toward the realm where lawyers rule

And moaning, Frere Jacques slipped into the wine-dark sea.

Many years passed, and the quake-shaky Bay Bridge remained unfixed.

The squire of Jack London Square turned his gaze toward Sacramento

And found there bountiful photo opportunities -- Michael Jackson, Anna Nicole Smith, greedy corporations! --

In the office of the attorney general, a worthy perch for a once and future governor.

As he bided his time, bickering lawmakers assembled in their much-greased halls,

Inhaling the smoke of thighbones burnt as an offering to the gods,

They picked their teeth and spoke aloud their private thoughts:

"My word, how voters take elected officials to task!

All their afflictions come from us, we hear,

And what of their own stupid choices on ballot propositions?"

The much-suffering goddess Minerva looked down at the belching louts --

Casting dice, spanking lobbyists and cursing term limits --

And she longed for the day of the son's return, when she would whisper in his ear that he better replace his red-faced official portrait.

Many years passed, and the quake-shaky Bay Bridge remained unfixed.

The wily Jerry Brown, son of the infrastructure-rich Pat Brown,

Laid out the tools he would need to seize the primary in pitched battle --

His winged words, the fey mention of a certain former squeeze,

And other odd bits he could throw at the doglike media.

Without throwing his spear, he smote the ruby-throated Gavin Newsom,

Felled by his own whether-you-like-it-or not boast on his shining city's steps.

Heeding his own counsel, and that of the clear-thinking Anne Gust,

He withstood the calls of his political suitors to hurl all of his coins, and the wealth of many families

Toward the well-oiled army of political mercenaries -- cretins -- who feasted on the carcass of their own Republican Party,

Slain in the service of the maid-eating queen of eBay, butcher of many sheep.

Using winged words both random and cryptic, he emerged the master of debate,

As Meg Whitman's spearmen, weighed down with plunder and spoils, collapsed, quietly spewing foul oaths.

And so the wily Jerry Brown returned to his ancestral home and sat upon his father's and his own erstwhile throne.

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Debra J. Saunders


 
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