Chester Milbanks was a clerk in government employ.
Early in and staying late were all his pride and joy.
He gazed so long upon his screen while wrinkling his brow
He grew a hump and then a squint just like a mild sea cow.
This dedicated servant to the public int’rest dwelt
In a tiny office with a carpet worn to felt.
He cherished ev’ry memo, and he guarded paperclips;
He doted on the words that fell from bureaucratic lips.
A new administration came to town one awful day,
And Chester Milbanks suddenly began to lose his way.
The policies he’d memorized as goodly protocol
Were now condemned -- which filled him with a bitter-tasting gall.
In prior days he knew the kind of red tape to produce.
But now his boss demanded tape the color of dark puce.
His carpet was replaced with bamboo mats, and what is more --
They oiled the hinges on his rusty, trusty office door!
Poor Chester knew not where to turn -- stability was gone.
The certainties of routine were as shorn as White House lawn.
He had not the suppleness or cunning of his boss --
And had no stomach to perform a one-eighty volte-face.
When he was instructed to dispose of memorandum
From the last eight years, he screamed and cried in painful tandem.
Then he ran down hallways as the water coolers shook,
And all vestiges of sanity he finally forsook.
Some say he now roams the streets of Washington D.C.,
With a shopping cart and sleeping bag his company.
Others swear he’s on the beach in Thailand with some girls,
Drinking rotgut arrack while he dives for opaque pearls.
Wherever Chester Milbank is; whatever he may be --
We ought to bow our heads and think of him with charity.
No man is a rubber band, to stretch until he breaks.
The inside of the Beltway harbors nothing but heartaches.
