Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

From a quiet corner of the old country,
a young man with a silver spoon of story
climbs a span of Atlantic foam,
his boots set the rhythm of a world‑wide dome.

He lands on the marble decks of a city
whose politics hum like an electric street‑coach,
and drapes his fingers over U.S. parchment,
where ink spills promise and scandal alike.

Mr. Smith — a name as plain as morning tea —
holds his own breath for a single sentence;
he declares an honest heart in a courtroom,
his voice an ally to the unheard masses,
a winner of a wild cosmic relocation.

Bruce‑bundled tribunals, fake toy‑stories,
favourite dances of politicians lined;
yet through the breach he insists on light,
throwing a paint‑brush (color) of integrity.

The city, indifferent, only mirrors a scene,
but pity forces bright, whispered rebuttal
against the silvery deception of milestone promises.

When we return one day to the hamlet,
he’s carrying back a forged narrative;
his pockets hold a resolution —

a simple sentence that British writers would write in margin:
“honour, in a world of drama, can still be true.”