My older sister Madeleine
Is a dame hardboiled as Ma Dillon
With a horror of the maudlin,
Who walks the walk of her dogma, telling
Stories that are cranium addling.
One day, when I was made illing
By pickles from a may dilling,
I was soon fair to middling
As she sung me a song on her mandoline:
An inspiring tale of mettle and
Dumb luck for those who muddle on:
A con man, Al, and his mate, Ellen.
El was some broad Al met along
The way to Vegas, a maid alone,
Not one to settle for the mid-lane
Life, but wild as a nomad, aligned
With that famous mad doll, Ayn
Rand, of objectivism’s moot line.
They did a drug deal at a motel inn,
Nabbed by two narcs who meddled in.
The cops won some medallion
For police who act the meta-lion.
Before either could pin his medal on,
They were hit with a lawsuit of mad élan:
Set up by crooks-in-the-mud Al and
El, brainy, oblongata medullan,
Who’d faked the drug mood, dealing
Only sugar. It seems they’d been modeling
ATF incompetence.
And on that doormat, I’ll end.