Paean to Martha
by Jonathan Quince
Friday, March 4, 2005 21:11:34
At 00:30 this morning, Martha Stewart enjoyed her first taste of freedom after five long months confined to Alderson Federal Prison Camp in West Virginia. The self-made billionaire businesswoman and symbol of both conscientious homemaking and virtuous American capitalism was incarcerated over charges of insider trading that supposedly saved her about $50,000. Envy-wracked churls who take success as a personal affront yipped with glee at Martha’s imprisonment; the cocaine-addicted professional criminals of Wall Street who steal billions of dollars daily were unavailable for comment on the magnitude of her crime.
Ne’er had I bought your homecraft brands or watched your T.V. show;
No fan am I, no follower: I barely knew your face.
Yet when the news of your incarceration reached my desk,
I was enraged, too shock’d to speak the sadness in my heart.
The sword that Justice carries does not care for politics
Of jealousy and hatred for all good and bright in life.
Thus in your future riches shall ironic vengeance come:
Those petty churls of petty spite reach naught but petty ends.
Break free! And free at last, may you see Fortune smile again!
You forg’d your early destiny; your future is your own.
And in those golden rivers, let your critics sink and drown;
Thus finding their comeuppance whilst you drink of future wealth.
Yet still in your good home of tasteful company do find
Some opportunities for admiration of your self:
A flow’r of steel, of mind and will, is your own mark to see
When gazing in the mirror, young yet still in elder times.
The years are kind unto those who, so resolute of soul,
Do bulldoze ev’ry battleground whilst smiling at the pain.
An optimist in horror may find conquest, pow’r anew;
Enjoy it now and always, for your rights you have long earn’d.
Yes, do enjoy a sensual bath, idyllic garden stroll,
Concerti in the background as you dance your private joys.
Again, I say, Be free! So that in liberty you may
Sometimes go find a dreamland in your fantasies’ own kind.
Atop the world, a pinnacle of loneliness is yours;
Make it a secret eagle’s nest, a fortress of your pride.
And hidden under lock and key, your plesaures may still thrive
In cryptic guise, such wonders hidden only for your eyes.
A goddess of humanity once spake this truth profane:
That none are granted happiness but those who do embrace
Insanity of principled and rightful love for self,
That, cleansed of envy’s tortures, they may look unto the light.
Idealized, now a paragon, you stand so well apart;
Such sterling smiles given bravely, cameras to catch,
Your beauty seen, I now must say, my silence I shall break;
I give you now a true salute: Yes, Martha, you I’d fuck.