After Tennyson

You ask me why, though ill at ease,
  Within this region I subsist,
  Where honor’s dead, and law is hissed,
And all men pillage as they please.

It is the land where freemen kill
  In warm debate their party foes;
  The land where judges come to blows
And speak the things that make us ill;

A land of base expedient;
  A land where gold can justice drown;
  Where Freedom’s chains are handed down
From President to President;

Where factions wrangle for the bread
  Of honest men; where, fearing naught,
  Accurst monopolies have caught
The people in the nets they spread;

Where branded convicts execute
  The laws that in a better time
  They broke, and every kind of crime
Stalks unashamed and resolute.

Should honor e’er possess the land,
  And patriots control the State,
  And Justice rise, divine with hate,
To choke the politician band,

O waft me from the harbor forth.
  Wild winds. I’ll see Alaska’s sky.
  Here ’twill have grown too warm, and I
Will run for office in the North.