The Craven (short version)

Once upon a March so dreary,
The High Court pondered weak and weary,
about the future health and fate of many,
but had no dog within this hunt,
knowing they would never suffer any healthcare want.

The telltale heart that echoed loud,
that began the stirrings in the crowd,
came not from under any floor,
but beat from the chest of an infamous boor,
the meaning true both new and old,
the timing of this event to many, particularly cold.

A young man’s death grants him life,
after a lifetime of sowing none but strife,
other priorities were always present,
to prevent him from serving in jungle or once fertile crescent,
feeding off the blood of lost youth,
once just metaphor, now it’s truth.

What timing is this that points so boldly,
as a right wing Court considers coldly,
whether to strip away any safety net,
from those with fewer means whose fate by economics is so cruelly set,
What say the Republican’s on this sad score?
Market forces, and nothing more.

The black suited pundits and lawyers came a knocking,
knocking on the High Court’s door,
armed with briefs payed by other fattened suits,
and with the payors deep in cahoots,
to defeat the reforms was their charge,
with success would their golden parachutes enlarge.

Many asked with pleading eyes,
of future plans could the conservatives us apprise,
will something better come our way,
if you are able this chamber to sway,
If the black hearts this reform defeat,
can we something from you better beg and entreat,
Quote the Craven, nevermore.