A Protest

We stood by the road like motley subjects
Awaiting the emperor's gilded sedan.
We cheered, not for a high and mighty
Obscenity lumber-trundling past,
But to answer the tuneless cantata
Of auto horns and hauler hoots
Sounding in fly-by sympathy.
We jiggled our picketed scrapboard signs
And waved at the tooting caravan;
Some at the curb were gussied up
In funfair colors or bangles and beads--
Even a unicorn made the scene! Most, however,
Came as they were, all neighbor-folk
Turning out to express their indignation.
At what, you ask? The Golden Bull
That gores us daily, that tramples rights
And laws and conscience;
An aging, overfed mooncalf that
With greasy, torpid, ponderous bulk
Suffocates creative spirits, snorts at allies,
Coddles crooks, sharts on honor, and
Leaves grimy hoofmarks on everything.