I.

I do regret that I cannot speak plain;

A riddle is the only way to go.

This is the last you'll hear from Sheridan.

In truth: I have here told you all I know.

The mourners have moved on from the old corpse,

As two have risen since to fill his place.

But time has not made every voice turn hoarse;

A Hemisphere is not made up of States.

Contained within a dog's most wanted treat,

Are twins who each will need the other's help.

Recall the information broker's creed:

To always keep a copy for yourself.

The club owner is foremost swayed by sweets,

And will reward a loyal friend in kind.

But even with the code they're hard to reach;

Their bodyguard is soon to lose his mind.

The son of Silvio would rather read,

Than entertain the swarm of Bellamys.

Yet competence hides behind poetry;

Too bad bookworms are rarely called to lead.

The sister of the boss barks more than bites.

Don't worry so damn much and you'll be fine.

II.

From west to east she cannot catch a break,

The niece a poor successor to the aunt.

Good leadership is somewhat hard to fake,

When Problems rise, you either can or can't.

The aunt is less retired by old age,

Than by the need to make her young niece great.

Yet, sitting by, she eagerly complains,

That it was she who reunited the States.

The central nerve of half the world takes note

Of every strange word said over the line.

He listens, so the rest of us speak code

-Not NATO, for that is his favorite kind.

He's hard to reach, and always in the bath,

A wasteful wanton who I wish would die.

My cousin and his several better halves

Could do much better if not for this guy.

The ex is not the kind to mark the spot;

She moves along the map at her own whim.

While Texas Waters must have been too hot,

In Florida it is not safe to swim.

The water may move fast on either side,

But in the middle you may find a friend.

If you get stuck after you've tried and tried,

A call to him might help you reach the end.

The debutante has rarely earned a part;

Her skills aren't suited for the camera's eye.

Yet still she hopes to learn her mother's art;

She tries to hit a note that's much too high.

The mother is no family of mine.

She looks through eyes that see and show their sight,

Yet of her doing gives us little sign.

She acts outside the view of her spotlight.

The gears of gambling turn a copper grist

Until the red room burns and ashes fall.

It's hard to say if I'm speaking with Whist

Or if something is not right, after all.

You're not the only gang to run this con: