The right honorable mayor, Kent C. Potholes, had fashioned impassioned rigmaroles, but to see the asphalt burst and cracked was not a politically high priority act. He worried and fussed for the welfare's rolls and ever about his political polls, while neither having interest deep for potholes nor repairing them on the cheap.
A sanctuary city was his town, and haven to those quite out and down; credit the mayoral spending spree for borrowing seems like cash for free. City hospitals, clinics for all, subsidies both large and small, and leaky was his budget's craft for all his hidden mayoral graft.
When companies sought some more temperate clime the mayor fought hard and cried, "Oh I'm so angry with this callous band who'd flee this paradise workers' land. So debts climbed high and loomed so large one day he thought he ought to charge a fee to make such simple repairs as potholes which catch cars unawares.
To find the civic duty civil he plastered all with public drivel, and cried aloud with booming voice, "Our city has no other choice." From all he called for sacrifice but few agreed to his higher price, for civics teaches this one truth: the elderly shall not pay for their foolish youth. The debts came due for Mayor Kent, so he retired and quickly went to some city where he would not pay for mismanagement like 'twas his one day. The potholes, as we learned, were never fixed one day, for there was never cash enough; they never went away. |