|
And one that I still find utterly brilliant, potentially prescient, and all too relevant:
Twas the night before Fitzmas, all through the White House,
Not a Dubyite was stirring, not even to shout.
The indictments are hung o'er heads that be there
With hopes of escaping Fitz thick in the air.
Georgie and Laura were snug in their bed,
Happy in knowing they're safe from Club Fed.
Rove was quite nervous, and Libby was too,
Aware that their joyride would finally be through.
When then from the Court there arose such a clatter
That the Rightist machine began to say, "No matter!"
Away to an undisclosed location Cheney flew like a flash
To hide and to weep, and his teeth he did gnash.
The Fitz-light did shine on the crim'nals below
and gave the lustre of law to the America-show.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a vigilant prosecutor, and an honest court here!
An old ugly miser, so callous, so sick,
I knew right away that this must be Saint Dick!
More wily than weasels his lies, they came,
He hollered and shouted, and slandered their names.
Now Fitzy! Now Jurors! Now American public!
Do you think that I'd do this, so very disgusting?
To the top of the heap, to the end of the hall,
I've bested, I've blackmailed, I've beaten them all!
But l'il did he know that his unending lie,
Would offer an obstacle too high to climb.
So up to the top the perjury did fly,
And for once, they of import turned not a blind eye.
As I took stock of what I'd heard, I suddenly thought,
"What if this is only yet another evil plot?"
Soon my fears were put finally to bed,
By the spectre of journalists rose from the dead.
They questioned, they prodded, they uncovered truths,
Only to lapse into the sad dogma of Pukes.
I fretted, I worried, I turned to despair,
Til I realized that soon, Bush wouldn't be there.
Lies can only be told for so long,
Whence the people demand that we right all the wrongs.
The killing, the ruining, the despair they have wrought,
Is all that they have, is all that they've bought.
No purchase they'll find with their ill-gotten gains,
Ask Dubya, he'll tell you, when it pours, it rains.
After years of sadness it'll finally be over,
We'll have thrown off the yoke of the Rightist Jehova.
And on that glorious day we shall see,
That the power is within you and also in me.
To take back our country, that is our cause,
We who respect this nation and her laws.
I faltered once and then I remembered,
We'll know the score as soon as December.
Merry Fitzmas, my friends, drink and be merry!
Soon we'll have doubt as to why they were scary.
I hope and I pray for an end to this test,
And yet I still wonder, "What shall be next?"
I think dark thoughts, yes, I dwell upon them,
It seems that there is no end to their unpardonable sin.
And then, with a whisper I heard in my ear,
The nightmare will end, and early next year!
Unfortunately, my very good friend, Matt, died before he saw his dream come to pass.
But now, in 2008 his imaginings shall come to fruition at last!
--Matt F. 1981-2007--
Oh, and the last two lines are mine. I think that my friend would enjoy that particular coda.
|
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
