A Poem about Jack Franks from a Reader

From reader RickeyRicardo in a comment under a Jack Franks’ Inspector General article:

Jack Franks

Jack Franks is the King of McHenry County!… and we are his slaves.

But wait, this poem is from 2021!:

I met a traveller from an antique wasteland,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the Dorr Township desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Jack Franks’ father Herb

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:My name is Franks! King of Kings! Son of Herby I;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away where once corn and soy grew.”


A Poem about Jack Franks from a Reader — 10 Comments

  1. Ironically, the direct election of the Board Chairman was promoted to curb the dictatorial tendencies of previous Chairmen who were selected by the board and could then dole out committee assignments as rewards and punishments for those who did and did not support them.

    Be careful what you wish for!

  2. No one can help who their parents are.

    The thing I object to about Franks is who HE IS!

    And all the lies HE TOLD!

  3. That’s a good one. Here’s another, though:

    –apologies to Wm Blake who lived when Englishmen had a culture and decent monarchs, not the sad degenerates occupying calling themselves English royals today, although he saw what was coming to Britannia.

    Franks, Franks burning bright,
    In the forests of the night;
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Could frame thy fearful tyranny?

    In what distant steppes or skies.
    Burnt the fire of thine gimlet eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the claw, dare seize the fire?

    And what sooty, bat-like wings & what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy alien heart?
    And when thy venomous heart began to beat,
    What dread tentacle? & what dread cloven feet?

    What the yoke-tax? What the chain,
    In what anti-Christian furnace was thy searing brain?
    What the anvil? What dread grasp,
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

    When the stars cast down their spears
    And water’d heaven with their torrents of tears:
    Did He EVER smile your work to see?
    Could He who made the Lamb, make thee?

    When you returned to tyrannize the local folk’,
    You hid your choking, sulfuric smoke!
    And put shoes upon your goatish feet,
    and tucked in your barbed tail to hide your gleet.

    Now in Woodstock you triumphantly prance,
    But LO! -The Peasants eschew your ‘Tax Death Dance.’
    “You’ll not steal our souls” you Devil, Franks!
    We’re on to your reeking, deceptive pranks!”

    You joke with your minion-demons & kept fake-news rag
    ‘How stupid the folk are!” as you try and suppress a laughing jag.
    But even the lowly worms you trample, turn upon your crafty wiles,
    Lying press releases, bought testimonials and fanged fake smiles!

    Franks, Franks burning bright,
    In the forests of the night:
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare dare call out thy fearful tyranny?

  4. The funniest thing is that if Franks put an (R) after his name instead of a (D) you’d all be falling over yourself to praise him.

  5. Sunshine blogger, please post the following poem from my inspiration:

    The cat,


    on the mat.

    Thank you all. Stay tuned…41 days…tic, tock, tic, tock, tic, tock, meeeeeoooooowwwwwwwwwwww…

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