retrograde

Brett's confirmation in the dark of night
comes with a somber robe, fresh off the rack.
But this one has no hood, like his dear white;
he thinks he's incognito, swathed in black.
An undistinguished judge, but for his youth,
may linger thirty years on that high bench
habitually plays games with the truth
and trusts that no one harkens to a wench.
Hard-drinking Southern boy in the grand style--
McKinley might have chosen such a one.
This snarling, unenlightened font of bile
now serves for life, regardless what he's done.
November's midterms loom, but come too late;
our daughters watch us gaming with their fate.