O the stench!
That foulest of stenches!
An unctuous fog of reeking vapors
Which rises like some charnel phoenix
From the bowels of the "City of Angels"!
Lady Justice has been gang-raped.
The ring-leader of a mercenary band
Chortles with a seedy contempt.
A depraved idol finds an altar
In the bosom of ignorance.
A knife, caked with forgotten blood,
Slumbers indifferently in some locked shrine,
And dreams vaguely of past deeds.
O Furies!
I summon you from the coils of outrage.
Let all rest cease for him!
Let his laurels be made thorns!
Let him drink the gall of his victory,
That it may choke him
As it hardens in his lying throat!
Noble Furies! Turn your back to Orestes;
There is better work for you here,
Here in a nation where
Justice is auctioned to the highest bidder and
Murdering your wife can make you
A media sensation!
George Chadderdon © 1995