by Julia Griffin
When Mr. Harvey Weinstein fell,
The right-wing anchors gloated;
But life was transiently hell
For those whom he’d promoted.
The men at first declined the hook,
Remembering there’d be no
Scream, without him, Sex, Lies, Thief, Cook,
King’s Speech or Tarantino;
But actresses of every age
(Especially the greater)
Quickly assailed with righteous rage
This human alligator.
One’d called him God and one’d tattooed
Her rear with his initials;
This now they vehemently rued
To spokesmen and officials.
His wife, whose every fancy frock
He’d touted from the rafters,
Departed, raising thus her stock
With those who grant the BAFTAs.
Soon Mr. Feig and Mr. Firth
Were crying shock and horror,
Declaring Mr. Weinstein’s berth
Less moral than Gomorrah,
While, through the squawking of the press,
The comics started slanging
(For where the Bee sucks, you may guess
The fruit will be low-hanging),
And all the Internet in flood,
Now one enormous lobby,
Deliriously howled for blood—
None more than brother Bobby.
For all maintain, of Hollywood,
The purest expectations,
Accepting nothing less than good:
Not even allegations.