Colonel Sanders hatched a scheme
to rant an old progressive theme.
He left the greening mountain heights
(that Caucasus of Social Rights),
descending to our nation’s valleys
milking the faithful at his rallies.
Mr. Sanders sold the farm,
sounded socialist alarm,
tuned his ever-changing screeds
to diagnose the nation’s needs.
Setting lefties all a-twitter,
bartering the sweet for bitter,
he glared through academic glasses
at the doubtful working classes
wondering why they failed to note
exactly how they ought to vote.
Sanders patched up race-relations
fixing holes with reparations,
working up his magic wonder:
horsey voice of righteous thunder—
till the clouds hung heavy and gray
the portent of a darker day.
Warming up leftover Hope
sparing no change for hangman’s rope,
sputtering — he blew a gasket
redistributing our basket;
scolding, bellowing, pumping fist
and waving fingers from the wrist
(like Politburo retro-chic:
a tousled old white-headed freak).