Elegy for Eliot

I believe there was a request for doggerel. Who am I to disappoint? Though this was written some time ago, I don't think it's appeared on this blog. So, to commemorate the one-year anniversary of a certain politician's peccadilloes (or rather the public disclosure of the aforementioned indiscretions), here is the

LOVE SONG OF J. ELIOT SPITZER

Let us go then, you and I
While the evening is spread out against the sky
Like the Baghdad skyline behind Wolf Blitzer
Or a criminal taken down by A.G. Spitzer

In the room the women come and go
“I’m called an escort, not a ho.”

The corridors of power are lonely, late at night
The bad guys all day long you have to fight
You deserve a little reward – maybe a cookie?
Nope – even a hero needs some nookie.

In the room the women come and go
“Plastic works, a cheque, or cash to go.”

Temptation looms – a vision, out of reach.
The voice of conscience: “Don’t you eat that peach!”
Too late! Our hero reaches for his cheques.
Another politician laid low by the lure of sex.

In the room the women come and go
“Eliot? Oh yeah, huge ego and libido.”

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the shores of silent seas.
Instead my taste for high-priced whores
Has made of me the emperor of sleaze.

(with apologies to, you know, Tom)