Round II, Part II

The sonnets I am writing are alike
As much today as any one, before
The race had gotten narrower, the corps
Of candidates, paraded on a pike
As if defeated Gallic lords, their Roman
Rulers leading on through bitter streets,
Ejected, that I’ve written.  Meter, beats,
The sentences more fitting for a tome,
Are all the very same that I have done.
The race is still the focus.  Pity, Drudge;
I’d often method, rhyme and choice begrudge,
But he and his endeavor haven’t won
If people think their politics a bore.
But I just cannot bear it anymore.