Men in nice suits meet in air-conditioned luxury Ties perfectly knotted, Cain’s mark on their lapels Enthroned behind paneled tables of polished oak Where by the magic of a secular oath, all are honorables
There is a chair, who is a man, not a chair Who wields an oaken gavel of authority As he smiles benignly and modestly An ‘umble adornment to the Republic
Then “bash!” goes the gavel, and yelling begins And no one seems to know why