The abused children of Pendergast

Old Toms, Tom's ghost still looms
Children, fatherless
Hear the stories, the dysfunctional glories
Nelson’s Beax-art mausoleum, opened
As a depression sedative, salve while
Tom’s democratic club, hardly, now
We still hear the stories, how did we get here?
Why some weakness to ensure strength
Districts, the many part of a whole, change?
Hesitation, still it stings, alcohol trade
Still the real river, jazz just museum music
Vines tangled, tribal councils, divisions
So many sides to be on and in
Don’t even mention we’ve been in a funk
Bad jokes, hoax, look to Jeff
City? Wants Mommy to fix it, schools
Greenish tinted zones, tints of skin
Nichols, dimes, sly, hangovers
Drunk ancestors, bleary eyed sepia tones
Acid infested paper, one choice here
The star of the show, one stage, power
Darkness on the confluent rivers
We wince, still flinch, run, hide
This city not a city rather districts, plaza
Parks, fountains, cardinal directions
North of this water, east of this street
South of here, crossroads visible
So on this day the new guy talks
Wants to be a stronger mayor, good
Wants a second term before starting
First, the council will gather, glare
Serve and protect, discern and object
As Tom, never elected, drifts
In chambers, Nelson’s beef-fed girth
BBQ’s smoking, fragrant meat, sweet
And pungent sauces, exported west
Tom’s abused children, the bastards
Of the bastard we love to hate and remember.

picture of Tom Pendergast from library.umkc.edu