Relative Poetry

An email from the last Republican in Manhattan.

In the tradition of sending unsolicited doggerel to the family, I presume to send this.  Today, after being caught in a stupendous but not atypical traffic jam, and nearly (once again) run over by a biker delivering (undoubtedly, salt-free) pizza,  I had blank time to kill in a dentist’s waiting room and amused myself by doing a parody of Rogers & Hart.  It may not even amuse you unless you know the original “Give It Back to the Indians,” but, nonetheless…

Ten bucks more to smoke a Lucky.
Dodging bikers keeps you thin.
New New York is simply ducky.
Give it back to the In–dians.

Nightlife now is just for snoring
Now that Bloomberg outlawed sin.
New New York is newly boring.
Give it back to the Indians.

You’ve got the
Reds–in Zucotti, smoking dope.
Greens– want to close the zoo.
Blues– down on Wall Street, losing hope.
Big Apple just sucks.
Waste of twenty-four bucks!

Gone, the fair, the brave, the witty.
All that’s left is dirt and din.
Even sex has left the city.
Give it back to the IN–dians.


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