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Two prosecutors typed with great care,
Describing a riot laid bare.
But their words struck a nerve,
And took quite a swerve—
Now they're sidelined for stating what’s there.

A man named Taranto, once freed,
By a pardon of notable speed,
Drove a van full of arms,
Causing serious alarms—
Now the court must decide how to plead.

Their memo, precise and restrained,
Said “a mob” — quite factually plain.
But truth, it would seem,
Can disturb the regime,
When politics enters the chain.

Judge Nichols must now take a stand,
With the facts and the law close at hand.
Though the storm’s in D.C.,
He’ll weigh what must be—
And sentence as justice demands.

In Washington’s marble halls,
Where justice still answers its calls,
The words that ring true
Can cause quite a view—
And shake both the mighty and small.