Nice in a Cardigan (or the Ballad of MvS)

At dawn I met a fellow bright,
with manners polished thin,
a ribboned smile, a handshake light;
Nice in a cardigan.

I gave him maps and open doors,
my time, my coin, my pen;
I steadied sails through coming squalls;
Nice in a cardigan.

He yesed and greased up every room,
a varnished violin,
yet tucked his spine like folded broom;
Nice in a cardigan.

The rafters shook, the hour arrived,
the old command: Begin.
Stand here for truth, keep faith alive;
Nice in a cardigan.

He sighed about the rules and forms,
he whispered of the terms,
then signed me over to the storm;
Nice in a cardigan.

“He called it ‘process,’ hard-required,”
a duty, not his sin,
and left me to the reckoning;
Nice in a cardigan.

Let plain speech strip the velvet mask,
retire the sugar spin;
not nice at all, the true cunt laid bare,
Nice in a cardigan.

For kindness stands when tempests roar;
it holds; it will not spin;
but niceness bows and skirts the door;
Nice in a cardigan.

He left the bill, the blame, the bruise,
and painted over sin;
a gentlemanly mugging done,
Nice in a cardigan.

The minutes crisp, the stapler’s bite,
a coffee-ringed “Comply”;
he slid the file, withdrew his hand;
cardigan-calm. Goodbye.

So mark the ones who pay a price
for truth that will not bend;
prefer the blunt, the tempered steel;
Nice in a cardigan.

Watch who can lose a vote for right
and hold the line again;
who stands when thunder tests the wood;
Nice in a cardigan.

If rafters shake and ink is dear,
I know where I begin:
I stand with courage, not with gloss;
Kindness wears no cardigan.

F.S.F