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Six experts of planning and art,
From the White House were told to depart.
They’d reviewed grand designs,
Now they’re cut from the lines—
Dismissed ere they’d even take part.

A triumphal arch Trump proposed,
With columns and grandeur imposed.
But the board got the sack,
Before viewing the plaque—
And the critics’ concern only rose.

A ballroom for banquets and praise,
Three hundred mil in the blaze.
“The panel’s advisory,”
Trump said, rather wryly—
“Like Truman, I’ll do it my way.”

For a century, Congress decreed,
That good taste the nation should heed.
But when power’s at play,
Advice drifts away—
And decorum gives way to pure speed.

The arch might rise high on D.C. ground,
Where oversight laws still abound.
Though the board was dismissed,
Its role might persist—
If the courts keep their footing sound.

In Washington’s marble and might,
The line between wrongness and right
Is shaped not in stone,
But by who holds the phone—
And who gets the call late at night.