This poem originally appeared in the March issue of Bazooka Magazine. Since it combines late 18th Century poetry with local politics, I'm guessing it has a target audience of about 4 people.

Schroeder-Khan

By Thomas Pain (with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

In Paxducah did Schroeder-Khan

A stately quilter tent decree

Where the Ohio River ran

At cost astonishing to man

Paid for by you and me.

On three square acres public ground

Two hundred thou to go up or down

We pay for air , phones, and electricity

And we throw in the atrium lobby for free.

While AQS at least pays security,

Tables are provided by the city.

But oh! To Schroeder goes all the quilters’ fee

For the booth space where they will display their wares.

A million and change the AQS will see

But just five grand in the city coffers will be

It seems like someone is screwing the taxpay’rs

And at the council, with kickback deals to be made,

All dissent is at rest summarily laid.

Whether from teacher, musician, or vet

The council will not hear the people’s shit.

Before you speak, your address you’ll release,

And your license plate saves time for police.

Because on patrol it’s for you they’ll be watching

So avoid speed, drinking, and sudden stopping.

For troublemakers they simply can not abide

While they’re trying to make their friends some cash.

So if you protest you’d best watch your ass

Or you’ll see what a jail looks from the inside.

The council is for Schroeder and his ilk,

Who need cash to wrap their asses in silk!

The shadow of the tent of quilters

In cost will hang o’er our heads

‘Til our kids all outgrow sitters

And our parents are all dead.

It is a miracle of avarice,

A summer quilter tent kept cool as ice!

A private citizen who has

Some friends who were elected,

Who makes some campaign contributions

Proclaims himself an institution

And gets his tent erected.

Corruption in such pure form

Few cities get to see.

Betrayal of the public trust is

Usually more hidden.

Those who own the media

Think we’ll not hear when they do wrong.

But with a Moon in Paducah

A little mag called Bazooka

We will begin to ask you, “huh?”

An underground is growing strong,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

Because your term will soon be dead,

And we will say to you “So long!”

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