In open court, the rancor
Rose like a plume
Bathing all present
With the vitriolic terms
Being tossed liked poisoned darts
Between the plaintiffs
More than once, the judge's gavel
Slammed as his face turned coral
And he demanded order
Called for some civility
Mopped his brow dry
Before scrunching his hankie
Into a ball, shaking his head
Thankfully, incidents as bad as this
Were rare, he thought
Trying to follow the thread
Of the arguments
Wishing he could duck
Below the lectern
to where his open bottle
Of single malt scotch lay
Wondered vaguely how much
Of his term on the bench
Was left ...
