by Philip Kitcher

The election’s so tight
I lie sleepless at night,
juggling numbers that fail to console.
Ample margins of error
make me shudder in terror.
How I long for a trustworthy poll!

Experts point to dispersion—
or perhaps it’s reversion?
Is inducing psychosis their goal?
Talk of sampling technique
might as well be in Greek.
Can’t they give me a trustworthy poll?

Each uncertain statistic
makes my pulse go ballistic,
drives my blood pressure out of control.
Starved of what I desire,
I shall surely expire
for the want of a trustworthy poll.