I feel in a time of nutjobs quite bereft
Of big anger, or of trying, seems my code
Propels me ever onwards to eager heft
Of unspoken electoral motherlode.
News cycling up and down renders me an eft
Squinting, burrowing, not quite finding the road.
Where once we drove supposing it vast unbound
Nothing passed at less than sixty, hare to hound.
We are a land full of posthumous degrees.
For those whose fate we can no longer control
Or animals not supporting industries
Who wash out a late someone drowning in coal
A gallon, a barrel, the scuttling of pleas
To seem overstretched, to redeem out of role
A yeardley once killed is beyond such amends
And measures the spillage while just among friends.
Moshtarak, Mubarak, they all seem the same!
A battle we don’t want, all dying in vain.
Victory defined by one dictator’s game
With allies who can’t, and the torturer’s stain.
Revenge is refined, all coruscating flame
Of fighting slant; these volunteers feel some pain,
While embedded upon Republican spree
Or Bayhnomial rant: so human rights free.
Fucking women makes the public option whole.
Misogyny’s after all a vote getter!
Chucking the condoms awakens a male soul
To be a prince, where once was a bed wetter
His Gal Nominee for prosecutor role
She gets paid less, like a Lily Ledbetter.
Conferencing point remains to keep ‘em down
More or less the plaything of a Senate clown.
They call the lack of a policy “dismay”
There can be no doubt just what will not be done.
How the photo ops evolve we cannot say
Any more than pointing out who has the gun.
Produced are speeches, the words and cadence play
Around challenge and change, they no longer stun.
The wonder beheld in coming to power:
How poorly it’s used and ebbs by the hour.
Inquire, Inquire, Inquire but never let slip
How what no one would ask then demeaned us all.
Soon the public option terror triggers grip
At polls, these pols are fated to take a fall
They demonstrate past prologue in losing trips
Up those whose change and hope seems hard to recall.
We’d like to be less hollowed out, but that would mean
Confronting now and then our last mise-en-scene.
In Anchorage focussing on yes we can
There is a sense of fleeing before we must
Acknowledge what we did, like a Sanford wan
Or not, let’s run!, Jesus told me there’s no lust
When a daughter’s baby says well, no we can
Be what you think you are, candidate of bust
There is very little to observe this day
Of curvy piffle, or less than what most say.
Normally, I post my Bozo Songs to my website. I’ve listed the 2009 Bozo Songs link in the Blogroll.
Here’s the latest one I wrote:
Sunni Late Payments Are The New MBS: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song
The King of Pop is dead, and I still don’t care
Farrah’s gone, but my right hand remains quite strong
Getting older is ahead of what may scare
Health care cons, and a country going wrong
Nothing bolder left than rhetoric to spare
Sons and daughters dying, this decade’s Hmong
72 hours of nostalgic craze
For what we once were, or villages to raze.
