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PART II
"And now a point of great import,
If you are to understand:
Blacks are jailed at a scandalous rate,
In this disenchanted land.
These same Black Americans, they do prefer
Democrats to Republicans.
The Grand Old Party? They want fewer to vote,
That is all a part of their plan.
Do you not see, the plan clearly
To rob us of our vote?
When free black men, are trapped again,
And few of us take note?"
The WebSurfer stays, for the points she makes
Enforce The Diva's claim:
That blacks and whites, though far from right,
Are rarely treated the same!
"Listen on!" bade she, "and you shall see,
The plotters' many tools.
They used them all, quite fiendishly,
In the land the Brother rules.
'Take to the polls your friends so dear?
A "taxi license" we must see.'
Or, 'You're registered? But I am afeared,
No listing shows for thee…'
Or Tallahassee blacks, while driving to vote,
Stopped by the State Police:
'Black? Male? Then stop and get out!
We will need to see ID.'
Or, 'Here, take this pencil to mark your choice
For the leader of this land.'
(When ballots marked so will have no voice,
Just as the plotters planned!)"
The Political Prisoner weaves her tale
Of the Death of Democracy.
The WebSurfer reads on, shaken and pale
Fearing for his belov-ed country.
"Say no more, I pray, Political Prisoner!
About fiends that plague us thus!
Why tellest me this? How can I resist?
Why should I make a fuss?"
"Hold yet, WebSurfer" The Diva writes on,
"For you've yet to hear the worst.
You may not be black, but civil rights you lack
After Five Injustices' curse."
PART III
The WebSurfer, he quakes with fear
To think this might be true.
"But, Political Prisoner, I am white.
Why should I fear this coup?"
The WebMistress, she tells a tale
Of a body tainted and impure:
Peopled by five, their Nation they fail
While chasing a partisan lure.
"The Supreme Court has made it quite plain
That we need not count all votes.
This they claim, though they cannot explain
How it follows what they've already wrote.
'A departure!' say some, who pretend to be stunned,
Though the sane knew the truth all along
That the media drum, that Justice would come,
Was propaganda, and most likely wrong.
When the Court screamed "HALT!" the sensible saw
The writing scrawled 'pon the wall:
In obscene letters, dripping with scorn
That might as well have been ten-feet-tall.
'To continue to count the people's voice
Might cause harm to our belov-ed Friend.
We cannot countenance the voter's choice
If his candidacy it might end.'
So said one Traitor whose own offspring
Work for the Friend's law firm
A conflict of interest, worthy of disbarring
But the Traitor did not squirm.
NEXT PAGE: RIME, PAGE 3 of 3
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