. In the City The city, where the liars are in charge And all the criminals are still at large: The just have been imprisoned, brought to heel: Grateful as dogs, oh, how we rush to kneel For the littlest favor, the smallest crumbs we get From its machine, the most submissive pets The city’s Boss (and pals) could ever wish for. As thanks, we’re kicked, and then must beg for more. Drug busts are trumpeted, but dealers don’t care, They know what’s needed to mollify despair. The killers amble free, festooned with guns, While we, disarmed, pray God this cracked-out one Won’t turn in passing and, crazed, cut our throats, As the Boss and his pals laugh and play on their boats, Wasting our taxes barring smokers from bars, Snarling streets with bike lanes, banning foie gras. “More Taxes!” “For schools!” But how they rise and rise! And their grads are only qualified for: “Want fries?” A tenth of each dollar in sales tax alone! “We’ll tithe you on your coffee, before you leave home.” City, county, state, then the Feds take more, Yet somehow they can’t quite take care of the poor. The “Federal Reserve” prints billions from nowhere— Yeah, you read that right, our money’s from thin air— Then gives it not to us, but instead to big banks, Who humbly accept, and graciously say thanks For their Swiss watches, Porsches, Hamptons estates, While all the while, the price we pay inflates. And what about the writers, their satire, their rage? The scathing-hot critiques they’ve seared through the page? They’re whoring after tenure in universities— Stuffed full with laurels, laden with degrees, Lordly in their towers, whose coffers groan, Bursting with boffo bucks in student loans, Expounding “self-expression,” “creative release.” ---so laudably progressive, but no one reads. Something’s rotten in Denmark, something’s very wrong— Exactly what, we all will learn, before too long. . . Overheard at the Post Office Counter The doughty Carib lady seemed perplexed. She’d queued, but were the workers on the lam? “Ees anybody there?” She called out, vexed. From far back came a practiced voice: “No, Ma’am.” . . Adam Wasem is a writer living in Chicago.