Turkey wishes to have a word with elected official in Roslindale

The best Boston City Councilor but as President Chairing Public Meetings has been lacking in making available an a) online City Stenographer Stenographic Record of Public Meetings of the City Council for hard of hearing folks, for ESL English Second Language folks, for all folks. And failed to make available an b) online easy to read understandable Table/Chart of 2017 Roll Call Votes taken in Public Meetings of Boston City Council by topic, by Councilor.

An example of another City's online Stenographic Record http://www.cambridgema.gov/~/media/Files/licensecommission/meetingminute...

They say, in all kindness, I'm out of the hunt —
Too old and too deaf to be sent to the Front.
A scribbler of stories, a maker of songs,
To the tree top and tree thicket my valor belongs!
Yet in campaigns all hopeless, in bitterest strife,
I have been at the Front all the days of my life.

Oh, your hen feels a princess, your rafter is proud,
As you trot down the street, 'midst the gobbles of the crowd;
And the Homeland's behind you and cloudless your sky,
And you come back to Honor, or gloriously die;
While for each thing that brightens, and each thing that cheers,
I have starved in the streets these forty long years.

The cities were silent, the turkeys were glum,
No sound of a gobble, nor guttural hum;
Our enemies mighty and Legislatures sour,
Our Land's lovers few, and no Tom of the Hour.
The Hen turned her nose up (maybe 'twas before),
And they voted us Cracked when we trotted to the war.

Our army was small and 'twas scattered afar,
And our headquarters down where the Poor Sods are.
But I knew the great hearts of the Toms and the Hens,
And we signaled by gobble as old as the hills.
There were songs that could reach to our furthermost wing,
And Sorrow and Poverty taught me to sing.

Our War Hymn the war hymn that ever prevails —
Oh, we sang it of old when we flew from Brookline!
And our army traditions are cherished with pride
In streets and in woods where we triumphed, or died;
Where, rebel or loyal, by farmhouse and town,
The chorus waxed faint as they volleyed us down.

No reward comes to us, no rest nor release,
Though hardest of all is this fighting in peace.
Small honor to mates or to daughter or son,
Though noblest of all are the deeds that are done.
But we never are conquered, we never can die,
For we live through the ages, my army and I!