X had the funds, the friends, the plan.
Y’s frank grin was—our common fate
Or just a flash in just a pan?
Z, from the tender age of eight,
Had thirsted to officiate.
We hardly felt them disappear,
The crooked and the somewhat straight.
Now where’s the slush of yesteryear?

Where’s Teapot Dome? Where’s the Iran
Contra Affair? Where’s Watergate—
Their shoes squeaked down the Halls of State,
Whole networks groaned beneath their weight,
Till spinster Clotho, darting near,
Shrouded in white a would-be mate.
Ah, where’s the slush of yesteryear?

Like blizzards on a screen the scandals
thickened at a fearful rate,
Followed by laughter from a can
And hot air from the candidate.
With so much open to debate,
Language that went into one ear
Came out the—hush! be delicate:
Where is the slush of yesteryear?

Omniscient Host, throughout your great
Late shows the crystal wits cohere,
The flaky banks accumulate—
But where’s the slush of yesteryear?

This Issue

December 5, 1991