August Nineteen Hundred Seventy-four

A president resigned and closed the door

to his career–in shattered fragments

lay his dreams,

His role in history obscured by ugly schemes,

Nefarious were those who made a ring

Around him and it seems

a foolish thing

That he never tried the truth or honesty

                                         With the people of the land. Morality

Never seemed to figure in their plots,

By lies and lies alone they called the shots.

                                       Some said The Man aspired to Castro-fame,

To a dictatorship he would stake a claim;

Others said he was a dupe, a pawn,

A stepping stone for climbers to trod on;

Still others claim the truth was not revealed,

and hint at mysteries that remained concealed.

But while the Lady and her maidens cried

One fact remained; time and time again,

The Man had lied.


A recluse hides beyond the lofty walls

of his estate, and so the mighty falls;

And though I tremble for what might have been

and sigh, relieved, to see The House washed cleaned

My soul aches for the pain his loved ones bear,

In dignity that face down the public stares.

The thirty seventh fell in stoic grief,

While the people hailed their newest chief.


Sandra Lee Smith/undated (1974)


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