The Candidate’s Psalm

The lord is my shepherd I shall not want;
upon his golden crown a nation is reborn.

He clothes me in orient wools and linens distant made
and beseeches me in comfort to dwell beneath his name
for all the days of my lease.

A park made he upon the detritus
and backs of his beloved unschooled
that the fairer race may praise his name and golf.

So beautiful his wealth, ‘tis mortal for mortals
to but glimpse his tax returns.

His recollections and fantasies alike are fact;
his word is all and law.

The mighty palmetto splinters at his slightest whisper
and upon his voice, omnipotent and like a trumpet,
he shall raise anew the walls of Jericho,
for no nation can be great, except an island be.

He dips his sword into the blood of swine
to pierce the flesh of his enemies
and to thrash and smote the huddled masses
yearning to be free.

He visits the sins of the father unto the child
and disperses all who belong not in his father’s house.
The cries of mercy he hears not,
the tears of children he transforms into oil
until his cup runneth over.

A warrior he; noble, righteous and brave,
but for an untrue sole that many years cramping
made him lean from the field of battle
where others fought and bled and fell obscure.

Long forgotten now which foot it was,
which way he leaned,
sometimes left or right of late,
he leans right forward now to ascend and lead.

He forgives all debts (owed)
and hath twice from ruin risen.
His name, his fame and greatness he proclaims.

T. Francis Curran is a freelance writers from Westchester, New York. Read other articles by T. Francis.