Poems for Bush

Feel free to add your own!

In honor of George and Laura's fear of poetry - evidenced by their cancellation of a symposium after hearing there might be a poet or two openly dissenting from the Official Party Line - we asked readers to submit their own works devoted to the disgraceful, authoritarian, unelected regime occupying the people's White House.


Twas Bushlig,
And the slithey Roves
did spin and simbol on the tube,
All cheney were the Patrilogues
and the Corpgrafts outre.

Beware the JabberJock the son
his cause to smite install'd perchance.
Beware the Rumrum urge to fun
with handshakes from the past.

He took his Nato sword in hand,
a long viagred foe was sought
and putin'd he by a crawford tree
and wondered what was thought.

As in oafish thought he brood
the JabberJock with tie of blue
came whiffeling to the UN too
with Guernica wrapped and tame.

Forty one plus two
boo hoo boo hoo
the Nato blade went eurothwack
He's left no cred that grimacing head
can liberally yell attack.

An hast thou slain the ultra hawk?
Scooter yer clubbies via rightish blog
raptures the way
frist lott delay.

Twas Bushlig,
And the slithey Roves
did spin and simbol on the tube,
All cheney were the Patrilogues
and the Corpgrafts outre.

********************************************
War Babies of Washington: our infant-in-chief throws a tantrum


Out of the womb of time, impregnated by catastrophic seed sprung: War Baby
Bush... drooling candy-coated platitudes and clutching toy armies of
endless war, mollified by the dazzle of shiny good Vs evil ideologies and
the comforting crib mobiles of missile defense shields.

His majesty the baby, our little prince of war.
Steady on your rocking-war-horse, our toy drums blaze out: Kitchy, Kitchy
coo... Yes they do, Yes they do.... Don't you cry, you precious little war
baby, you: Your stinky poo-poo diapers of mass destruction are fully
loaded-- No need for tantrums, you're our cute lil' Captain Bunny Pants,
you're Unkee Dick's and Unka Rummy's favorite little soldier, yes, you are,
yes, you are....

Don't get cranking there little one-- because that tax-cut teething ring
will soothe our littlest' patrician's sore, sore gums.... Yes, they do, Yes,
they do....

We're soooo sorry you're not allowed to play with Kenny Boy anymore, because
he was a bad, bad boy who had got caught with his dirty, little hands in the
cookie jar... and we know it wasn't your fault that he shared so many those
cookie with you-- because we know you'd never take anything that didn't
belong you-- no matter what those cry baby friends of that snotty little
Albert jr. say.

Don't be scared of those foolish boys who live in that far away neighborhood
in the desert. We know they are being such meanies: We know it's sooooo
unfair that they were born with YOUR oil under THEIR land. Daddy says its
YOUR oil and that settles it. If you do wake up a little cranky-- and you
throw a fit of military might to get your way-- it will be there own fault.
They started it; they denied you birthright. Poppy says: That's a big no-no.
Those evil ones who sass you: They'll be sent straight to eternal time-out.

Your sit, strapped in your high-chair throne-- and all you ask for... will
be brought to you; all that you can see from your Air Force One Stroller
will yours; your Oval Office Play Pen is the center of God's creation. The
Baby Bush and The Baby Jesus are secured in their twin child-seats in the
Sky Daddy's celestial minivan serenely traveling toward their Play Date with
Destiny. It has all been foretold by your pop-up book bible.

Pretty, pretty apocalypse.... Weeeee!!! We... all go up in the air to
heaven, like on a great, big swing. Weeeee!!! Unka Dick promised he take
you to the Global Warming Water Park and Unka Dick promised Six Flags over
Extinction. Yeeeaa!

The whole world is such fun when it's all your very own gift: And you get to
tear open the gift-wrapped package-- and you'll never get in trouble when
you break it just the day after your birthday. Yeeeaa! The Reverend Pat and
Jerry say will be like your birthday in heaven every day. Yeeeaa!!!

More.......

www.mediahorse.com...

(the event was to talk about poetry - not to be some yahoo poets anti-war soap box, and I think it was only a 'single' poet, a one Sam Hamill)

Poetry, like music, is best when born from some sort of catalyst, no?

Originally posted by Bout Time
Poetry, like music, is best when born from some sort of catalyst, no?

Usually wine. Or beer. Or whiskey, for a really determined attack on the muse.