Someone linked to this poem with a point in the chat during last night's celebration of the Forward Party's first birthday.
One day some folks in the town of Julyberry
Went to commission a neighborhood library.
Books in the town were too simple and few,
And they’d run out of stories exciting and new.
They convened at Town Hall and presented their plan.
The town council considered, and said, “Yes, we can!”
“There’s a perfect location–just give us some time and
We’ll put it on top of the old baseball diamond!”
The book-reading folks were content with this choice,
But the athletes and sports fans cried out with one voice,
“You can’t put a library on our sports field!
We will not allow it, and we will not yield!”
They put their foot down and continued to shout,
“We will form our own party and we’ll vote you out!”
They selected their leaders with singular aim,
To protect their old ballfield and keep things the same.
The councilors whispered, their speech tinged with greed,
“The athletes and sports fans don’t want you to read!
We need more campaign funds to keep them from power!
They oppose your library? We’ll make it a tower!”
The book-lovers turned out their pockets with glee.
“We’ll show the sports-lovers! Yes, we’ll make them see!
They resent us for all our creative pursuits.
They don’t care about baseball; they’re just being brutes!”
But meanwhile the sports-lovers turned out the vote–
They replaced half the council, and how they did gloat.
They stopped not just the library, but any measure
They thought might give book-lovers any small pleasure.
The members of council were thus in deadlock–
Each group would draft measures the other would block.
Most had clauses that tweaked someone’s nose, as expected,
But those that did not, even so, were rejected.
And Julyberry leaders kept serving the town
Writing spiteful proposals and shouting them down
And continued to meet all their fundraising goals
While the old pipes and roads became riddled with holes.
Now you can’t drive through town and you can’t drink the water,
And you won’t see repairs on the town meeting blotter.
But the voters sing praise of each allied official,
Their neighbors, now enemies, just sacrificial.
And who is to blame for the town’s ceaseless fight?
If one says that they all are at fault, is that trite?
For next door to Town Hall, under overcast skies,
Lies an old vacant lot, roughly library-size.
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