One morning a Washington pundit awoke in Sioux City.

What strange predilection had caused him to come to this place?

The Iowa folk were too simple for him (what a pity);

The Music Man's land lacked appeal for this word-slinging ace.

A return to his Washington residence out of the question

(Amnesia had caused him his name and his home to forget),

To mitigate pique, mal de tête, and profound indigestion,

He took up a columnist’s job with the local gazette.

Perspicacious as ever, he wrote with his sharp pundit’s pen,

With satire proscribing the customs that Iowans love,

With predator’s instincts entrapping the prey in his den,

Slyly denouncing, then pouncing like eagle on dove.

When critics raised questions, the pundit’s attacks just grew stronger;

He rationalized that his mind was superior to theirs.

At last the good people of Iowa, patient no longer,

Confronted the pundit, demanding surcease of his airs.

In total frustration they carried him out to the dump.

And he slept there, recumbent on pickles, used tissue, and cream,

Until he awoke as he fell to the ground with a thump

From his Washington bed. Of course, it had all been a dream.