Now that Death's cold tide is rising on the Lion of the Senate, the troubadours of the dark force are singing his epic, emphasizing the roles they played, in aiding the great man in his heroic prime. No one is dancing about with their genitals exposed shouting the old dirty limericks about Mary Jo and the slough.
When their own Lion, Strom, lay on his bier, arms crossed on his chest, ax handle in one hand and noose in the other, after a hard fought century of battle, only the voice of Trent Lott rose in praise of the departed. Then they drove Trent down from his place at the high table, in disgrace, afraid for their own prospects after so many defeats in the field.
A lot of bad things are still said about Trent Lott. I'd share his oar. I'd rather go to Hell with an honest monster than spend the eternal Winter in a warm mead hall with men who shirk, no matter how craven and corrupt the monster's company may make me. Sometimes the company you keep on the journey is more important than the horrible truth of where you're going.
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