The despot stormed into the house
he'd lived in once before;
I’ll have my way this time—or else!
he yelled, he spat, he swore.
My enemies are doomed! he cried.
His list of them was long.
He massed his henchmen for the job;
he sang his grievous song:
These bureaucrats are evil, all!
And one by one they fell—
their choice: resign or be fired outright,
or work in living hell.
And so it went, week after week.
The firehose of flames
burnt through appointed expertise,
a litany of names:
Joint Chiefs of Staff, librarians,
commissioners, former friends,
inspectors general, lawyers, cops—
The list seemed not to end.
Congressional sycophants stood by,
appointed judges too,
while hatchets swung, reputations hung.
Resisters, they were few.
No matter what was not allowed,
he fired them anyway.
Museum boss, she quickly bowed
and meekly slinked away.
But then he tried to fire one
who would not go so fast:
his charge was weak and she held firm—
the battle lines were cast.
Who was this woman dared fight back,
what brave, courageous soul?
Whence came she from, what had she done
to warrant such a role?
A girl was born in Milledgeville,
a Georgia town most fair;
her mama was a nurse and prof,
her pop a reverend there.
Such parents wise, intelligent,
and loving raised her well,
but the little Black girl in a Southern town
found challenges to quell.
Though segregation had been banned for years
and equality the rule,
it was up to her, and her sisters too,
to desegregate their school.
While the little white boys and little white girls
beat them up and called them Nnnnnn,
they studied hard and got good grades
and refused all the while to bend.
After college she went on to earn
a scholarship abroad:
to Oxford University
she went and then she thought
to make a difference she’d apply
herself to something grand—
Economics seemed the way for her
the world to understand.
In graduate school she showed some range
to probe the Russian case,
then wowed them all with new research
on innovation’s links to race:
How can a nation really thrive
when not everyone feels safe?
Her point was made, her tenure gained,
she’d finally found her place.
Our professor Lisa Cook was now
appointed to the Fed
as governor, for her acumen,
a cool and level head.
The time was right for her to shine,
as reckoning was nigh
on issues dear, on race and class,
where she had cast her eye.
But then the demagogue roared back—
was re-elected strong—
and all the things for which she’d fought
were suddenly thought wrong.
I read it in the Times today—
that women got it worst:
when the thugs got out the chopping block,
Black women got cut first.
And so the despot did announce
that Lisa Cook must go,
despite the independence that
the Fed’s supposed to show.
But Lisa Cook refused to yield,
it wasn’t her first fight—
unlike those others who resigned
and fled into the night.
I’ll not step down, she said outright.
You see, you’ll have to wait.
My governor’s appointment lasts
‘til 2038.
You have no grounds, my duty’s here,
I’ll have my day in court!
Bring on your lawyers and your trolls—
your reign is growing short.
And so it was, when others saw
brave Lisa Cook stand up—
the head scientist at CDC
said I’m not going to jump.
The spell was broken; people saw
resistance actually work.
With stiffened spines, stayed at their posts
the experts, judges, clerks.
Apoplexy gripped the president:
How dare they cross me now!
I’ll terminate that Lisa Cook
And the rest will follow down.
But miracle of miracles,
the Supreme Court agreed
for once, the president was wrong,
and Lisa Cook was freed.
She was free to do her job and help
her country in its fight
for prosperity midst the despot’s whims,
delusions, moral blight.
Her countrymen began to see
what they could do, as well.
Division lessened by degree;
resolve began to swell.
Our leadership has lost its way,
so elsewhere must we look.
We woke up just in time to change,
all thanks to Lisa Cook.
Author’s note: At the time of this writing (February 2026), Lisa Cook's case is currently before the Supreme Court. Four stanzas from the end, this poem turns to a fictional future, in hopes that it comes true. Statements attributed to Ms. Cook in the two stanzas starting with "I’ll not step down, she said outright" are likewise imagined.
Mark F. DeWitt is an ethnomusicologist, amateur musician, and emerging poet based in Oakland, California, although parts of him still linger in Louisiana, Massachusetts, and Ohio. His poems have appeared in publications of the Society for Ethnomusicology and the Litquake Foundation. He is also author of an ethnography, Cajun and Zydeco Dance Music in Northern California: Modern Pleasures in a Postmodern World (University Press of Mississippi).
