Oh gather round, ye lords of lawn and cement, Who measure civic worth by mortgage spent. For how could any renter dare to steer A city where the condos scrape the pier?
How could one lead without a modern kitchen, Four beds, five baths, and which in The back has a sauna, in the front a garage, Plus a den and a craft room for découpage?
What horror… what collapse of social order… Leaders who don’t leap wealth’s tall border! A one‑bed flat? A century‑old abode? How could they grasp the sacred homeowner code:
That only those with million‑dollar homes Can hear the city’s true enlightened tones. For renters, as we know, are far too poor To understand what “Seattle life” is for.
Nothing shakes the classist soul quite so As proof you don’t need a mortgage to know How cities breathe, how people try, How to live with no hope to buy.
So tremble, nobles! Tremble at the sight: A leader who doesn’t own her home outright.
Oh, the horror. A renter. In charge. A renter. Who understands.
Imagine.
