(A political fable in Seuss-style rhyme)

Down in the halls of D.C. where the long echoes fall,
Lived a whisper named Miller who liked rules most of all.
He stacked them in towers, he sorted them neat—
Policies piled from the floor to his feet.

He muttered of borders, he muttered of walls,
He scribbled up memos in windowless halls.
He drafted and crafted with tireless might,
Turning long, gloomy pages deep into the night.

“Oh laws should be tougher! And stricter! And tight!
And every new order should give folks a fright!”
He polished each paragraph, sharp as a pin—
The Big-Bad Bill Machine was humming within.

“Now listen,” said Miller, “I’ll tell you my plan:
We’ll shrink down the welcome to less than a can.
We’ll narrow the pathways till only a few
Can slip through the rules I have glued with my glue.”

He stamped and he sealed and he filed and he frowned;
The papers he pushed made a thunderous sound.
Reporters would ask, “Is this really your view?”
He’d smile without smiling and whisper, “It’s true.”

But outside his office, the crowds had grown loud,
A bustling, rustling, justice-seeking crowd.
They carried their signs in the bright morning sun—
“America works when it welcomes everyone!”

They chanted and marched past the granite-gray gate,
Explaining that future and freedom can’t wait.
They said that a rulebook built only on fear
Will crumble the moment real people draw near.

And some in the hallways began to take note:
“His memos are many, but where is the hope?”
“Where’s the big picture? The vision? The grace?
A nation needs more than a frowning face.”

For policy, see, is a delicate art—
It lives in the head but was made for the heart.
And a rule built on worry, exclusion, or spite
Grows brittle and breaks in the bright public light.

And so the tale ends with a moral so clear:
When laws lose compassion, they soon disappear.
A country is strongest when people belong—
And the Big-Bad Bill Machine can’t outlast that song.