Poem: The Rural Mayan

The "New Deal" gave a gift to America:
Money for the old, for the sick,
for the poor, and for the stupid.
The Rural Mayan stands tall,
solid, caring, and true.

Surrounded on all sides by
thick, grey, walls of cement,
red-tape, buck-passing, and bullshit.
She does her very best,
in a land without "thank you's,"
overseen by Neiling fools,
needling tools, needless mules,
yet keeping her cool,
a heart beats inside that Mayan there.

She could have retired and ran for the hills,
but helping the downtrodden gives her the thrills.
An imperfect world which we cannot change,
by helping each other we hope to arrange,
a method of turning the lead into gold
(I'd marry that Mayan, but I am too old!).

There aren't enough words for me to explain
the help that the Mayan has done for my pain.
Her listening ears and recommendations,
I think she deserves the highest citations,
yet all I have left of me is to give,
these very few words:
(Whose spirit will live!)

For all of the energy we send out and away,
will come back to us many times the same way.
Because of this law she lives in no fear,
the Mayan knows well the Good Luck due to her!

So here's to the Mayan, I offer her cheers!
May she be blessed, for all of her years!