Jeff Beauregard Sessions, whatever he thought,
Disavows rememberance of things past.
He is insulted by accusations and distraught
That erstwhile colleagues think his claims a waste.
Selma’s colored fountains are no more.
While every hash is tagged with healing rights,
The South may rise again, or sip in woe
And moan the insult of many a darkened sight:
Thus he swivels neck at meetings unrecalled
With forgotten Russian type at the Mayflower,
Citing decades’ policies long installed
In justificatory — or exculpatory — power.
But if the while he starts to think on Trump,
He sips once more, and tastes a brackish swamp.