OLD WINE , NEW BOTTLE

Being temporarily out of action amd unable to produce something new for this week's edition of strikemepink I'm reprinting here a poem suitable for this year when maybe we'll have a convention similar to the old-fashioned free-for-alls. Back to normal nest week

NO CONTENTION, NO CONVENTION

I miss the old conventions
They were always full of hell
From early in the morning
Till the chairman’s gavel fell.

The fought about the platform
And they fought about the ticket,
They argued with the chairman
And they told him where to stick it.

The questioned all credentials
And disputed every seat.
Each motion was essential
And they’d never call retreat.

That’s what they told each other
No compromise for them
When brother fought with brother
In the sweltering stadium.

The temperature was awful
But still they fought and died
Against the schemes unlawful
Of the fiends on the other side.

Some were Dewey, some were Taft
That in the battle reveled.
Their shirts hung out both fore and aft
And all were much disheveled

For either party ’twas all the same
Whatever the bone of contention
And if the unit rule didn’t bring a duel
It wasn’t much of a convention.

But Rayburn was high on his rampart
Where he knew how to control such anarchy
By gaveling down each upstart
Who dared to challenge his monarchy.

He’d a weapon to command and that was the band
Who waited for his direction.
If anyone moved a motion he’d banned
He was silenced with a Sousa selection.

Now we’ve all become good bunnies
Who always mind our manners.
I miss the the Fordies and the Ronnies
Destroying each others’ banners.

I remember the time of Governor Fine
And the Philadelphia story,
He’d the delegate slate from the Keystone State
And great was his power and glory.

Again Pennsylvania showed its power and might
With the Lawrence delegation,
He did his stuff while out of sight
And Kennedy got the nomination.

The party bosses did much assume
Their right to impose their visions.
They settled things in a smoke-filled room
Then told the folks their decisions.

Some of the delegates howled with pain
And protested against these choices.
So the band struck up again
Plus a chorus of a hundred voices.

Today there are no protestors
Except in the streets and avenues.
Inside it’s like a bunch of investors
Hearing the news of their revenues.

The silence of the lambs is prevailing
It’s really quite awe-inspiring.
But what has become of the delegates’ drum
And the fireworks they’d be firing?

What of the shoving in the aisles
And the angry words exchanged?
Now everything’s sweetness and smiles
And even the cheers seem arranged.

Take me back to those days of our history
To conventions that were sweaty and hot
Where each delegate was a separate mystery
Who might have been sober, but was probably not.

OLD WINE , NEW BOTTLE Being temporarily out of action amd unable to produce something new for this week's edition of strikemepink I'm reprinting here a poem suitable for this year when maybe we'll have a convention similar to the old-fashioned free-for-alls. Back to normal nest week NO CONTENTION, NO CONVENTION I miss the old conventions They were always full of hell From early in the morning Till the chairman’s gavel fell. The fought about the platform And they fought about the ticket, They argued with the chairman And they told him where to stick it. The questioned all credentials And disputed every seat. Each motion was essential And they’d never call retreat. That’s what they told each other No compromise for them When brother fought with brother In the sweltering stadium. The temperature was awful But still they fought and died Against the schemes unlawful Of the fiends on the other side. Some were Dewey, some were Taft That in the battle reveled. Their shirts hung out both fore and aft And all were much disheveled For either party ’twas all the same Whatever the bone of contention And if the unit rule didn’t bring a duel It wasn’t much of a convention. But Rayburn was high on his rampart Where he knew how to control such anarchy By gaveling down each upstart Who dared to challenge his monarchy. He’d a weapon to command and that was the band Who waited for his direction. If anyone moved a motion he’d banned He was silenced with a Sousa selection. Now we’ve all become good bunnies Who always mind our manners. I miss the the Fordies and the Ronnies Destroying each others’ banners. I remember the time of Governor Fine And the Philadelphia story, He’d the delegate slate from the Keystone State And great was his power and glory. Again Pennsylvania showed its power and might With the Lawrence delegation, He did his stuff while out of sight And Kennedy got the nomination. The party bosses did much assume Their right to impose their visions. They settled things in a smoke-filled room Then told the folks their decisions. Some of the delegates howled with pain And protested against these choices. So the band struck up again Plus a chorus of a hundred voices. Today there are no protestors Except in the streets and avenues. Inside it’s like a bunch of investors Hearing the news of their revenues. The silence of the lambs is prevailing It’s really quite awe-inspiring. But what has become of the delegates’ drum And the fireworks they’d be firing? What of the shoving in the aisles And the angry words exchanged? Now everything’s sweetness and smiles And even the cheers seem arranged. Take me back to those days of our history To conventions that were sweaty and hot Where each delegate was a separate mystery Who might have been sober, but was probably not. Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.

Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.

OLD WINE , NEW BOTTLE

Being temporarily out of action amd unable to produce something new for this week's edition of strikemepink I'm reprinting here a poem suitable for this year when maybe we'll have a convention similar to the old-fashioned free-for-alls. Back to normal nest week

NO CONTENTION, NO CONVENTION

I miss the old conventions
They were always full of hell
From early in the morning
Till the chairman’s gavel fell.

The fought about the platform
And they fought about the ticket,
They argued with the chairman
And they told him where to stick it.

The questioned all credentials
And disputed every seat.
Each motion was essential
And they’d never call retreat.

That’s what they told each other
No compromise for them
When brother fought with brother
In the sweltering stadium.

The temperature was awful
But still they fought and died
Against the schemes unlawful
Of the fiends on the other side.

Some were Dewey, some were Taft
That in the battle reveled.
Their shirts hung out both fore and aft
And all were much disheveled

For either party ’twas all the same
Whatever the bone of contention
And if the unit rule didn’t bring a duel
It wasn’t much of a convention.

But Rayburn was high on his rampart
Where he knew how to control such anarchy
By gaveling down each upstart
Who dared to challenge his monarchy.

He’d a weapon to command and that was the band
Who waited for his direction.
If anyone moved a motion he’d banned
He was silenced with a Sousa selection.

Now we’ve all become good bunnies
Who always mind our manners.
I miss the the Fordies and the Ronnies
Destroying each others’ banners.

I remember the time of Governor Fine
And the Philadelphia story,
He’d the delegate slate from the Keystone State
And great was his power and glory.

Again Pennsylvania showed its power and might
With the Lawrence delegation,
He did his stuff while out of sight
And Kennedy got the nomination.

The party bosses did much assume
Their right to impose their visions.
They settled things in a smoke-filled room
Then told the folks their decisions.

Some of the delegates howled with pain
And protested against these choices.
So the band struck up again
Plus a chorus of a hundred voices.

Today there are no protestors
Except in the streets and avenues.
Inside it’s like a bunch of investors
Hearing the news of their revenues.

The silence of the lambs is prevailing
It’s really quite awe-inspiring.
But what has become of the delegates’ drum
And the fireworks they’d be firing?

What of the shoving in the aisles
And the angry words exchanged?
Now everything’s sweetness and smiles
And even the cheers seem arranged.

Take me back to those days of our history
To conventions that were sweaty and hot
Where each delegate was a separate mystery
Who might have been sober, but was probably not.

OLD WINE , NEW BOTTLE Being temporarily out of action amd unable to produce something new for this week's edition of strikemepink I'm reprinting here a poem suitable for this year when maybe we'll have a convention similar to the old-fashioned free-for-alls. Back to normal nest week NO CONTENTION, NO CONVENTION I miss the old conventions They were always full of hell From early in the morning Till the chairman’s gavel fell. The fought about the platform And they fought about the ticket, They argued with the chairman And they told him where to stick it. The questioned all credentials And disputed every seat. Each motion was essential And they’d never call retreat. That’s what they told each other No compromise for them When brother fought with brother In the sweltering stadium. The temperature was awful But still they fought and died Against the schemes unlawful Of the fiends on the other side. Some were Dewey, some were Taft That in the battle reveled. Their shirts hung out both fore and aft And all were much disheveled For either party ’twas all the same Whatever the bone of contention And if the unit rule didn’t bring a duel It wasn’t much of a convention. But Rayburn was high on his rampart Where he knew how to control such anarchy By gaveling down each upstart Who dared to challenge his monarchy. He’d a weapon to command and that was the band Who waited for his direction. If anyone moved a motion he’d banned He was silenced with a Sousa selection. Now we’ve all become good bunnies Who always mind our manners. I miss the the Fordies and the Ronnies Destroying each others’ banners. I remember the time of Governor Fine And the Philadelphia story, He’d the delegate slate from the Keystone State And great was his power and glory. Again Pennsylvania showed its power and might With the Lawrence delegation, He did his stuff while out of sight And Kennedy got the nomination. The party bosses did much assume Their right to impose their visions. They settled things in a smoke-filled room Then told the folks their decisions. Some of the delegates howled with pain And protested against these choices. So the band struck up again Plus a chorus of a hundred voices. Today there are no protestors Except in the streets and avenues. Inside it’s like a bunch of investors Hearing the news of their revenues. The silence of the lambs is prevailing It’s really quite awe-inspiring. But what has become of the delegates’ drum And the fireworks they’d be firing? What of the shoving in the aisles And the angry words exchanged? Now everything’s sweetness and smiles And even the cheers seem arranged. Take me back to those days of our history To conventions that were sweaty and hot Where each delegate was a separate mystery Who might have been sober, but was probably not. Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.

Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.

Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.






Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.




Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.






Designed and Hosted by Online Ontime Ltd.