Attend the fate of KKK,
A flittering moth who’s had her day,
Who felled, betimes, the goodly Rees,
And thought the Great Game just a breeze,
Who whimpers now, at power’s end,
Without a teddy-bear, or friend,
‘I did things right, I praised the Lord,
I asked my fellow-Yank, Walt Secord,
How best to corn-hole Joe and Eddie
While seeming hot, and calm, and steady;
And Walt said, ‘Kristina, iron your hair,
Conceal your brain, it isn’t there.
‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,
Claim you stand for honesty,
Go forth, look cute in a miner’s hat,
You do the tapdance whilst I grow fat.’
She cooed, she danced, she hit the spot,
And old men grunted, ‘Wow, she’s hot.’
But everyone voted for portly Barry,
Cuddly disguise for Oil Can Harry,
And now, aghast, ’neath alien skies,
So unfulfilled, and yet not wise,
Lies lovely, chirpy KKK
At the end of her working holiday.
And who’s to blame, and who’s to care,
Who’s to remember her flying hair?
The Labor diaspora weep and wail,
Their Golden Age kaput. Wassail.