N.H. poll puts Gore over Clinton

Former Vice President Al Gore is New York Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton's worst nightmare in the nation"s first primary, a new poll shows.

If Mr. Gore got into the 2008 presidential nomination contest, he would edge out Mrs. Clinton in New Hampshire 32 percent to 26 percent and defeat the rest of the Democratic contenders, says a 7NEWS-Suffolk University poll of likely voters.

"Gore is the only Democrat, including Hillary, who can instantly melt the field," said David Paleologos, director of the Suffolk University Political Research Center, which conducted the survey.

Absent a Gore entry, Mrs. Clinton is the clear front-runner among declared Democratic candidates, with 37 percent, up from 28 percent in the same poll taken in March.

Illinois Sen. Barack Obama is second at 19 percent, followed by both John Edwards and New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson at 9 percent.

"The Democratic candidates debate a few weeks ago may have helped Hillary and hurt Barack Obama," Mr. Paleologos said. "Gore takes the most votes from Obama. I think a chunk of Obama voters in New Hampshire are anybody-but-Hillary Democrats."

On the Republican side, former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney has jumped to first from third, with 26 percent, followed by former New York Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani at 22 percent, according to the June 20-24 poll.

Mr. Romney was at 17 percent in March — four points above the 13 percent received by Arizona Sen. John McCain and undeclared candidate Fred Thompson in the new poll.

The poll also showed that an independent presidential bid by New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg would benefit Democrats when New Hampshire voters cast ballots in the general election. Mr. Bloomberg would grab 6 percent to 8 percent, but mainly from Republicans. The survey showed that in six general-election matchups, Democrats gained...

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Hampshire trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the lee of Sunapee
I cremated Al Goree.

Now Al Goree was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the polls, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dixville trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Al Goree.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Al Goree.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the lee of Sunapee, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Al Goree.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Al, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Belle Meade, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

Obama, Barack Hussein—I believe, received early direction to gain national exposure and build a following, then jump on board the Hillary ticket, bringing over those that Hillary cannot sweet talk on her own. Then BHO gathers the experience needed to run for President down the road. Hillary then figures she is a shoe-in. BHO’s name, alone, kills his chances at this time, to be blunt.

Gore can only run on “global warming” as will be attacked in every direction on the Gore Commission—leading up to 9/11, past policies, his WMD warnings on Saddam, etc. Tipper Gore’s mission to censor “musical lyrics” hurt her in the Liberal “creative” community. Gore may bring in Michael Moore as VP (just kidding). Easily exposed as a hypocrite.

The "Breck Girl" has little chance, while adorned with a $400 dollar hair cut and a “primp” video, has displayed a cowardly trait (Coulter vs. Mrs. Edwards) with his wife fighting his battles for him. Again, Mrs. Edwards vs. Cheney daughter scenario(during Kerry’s run for the Presidency). Won’t relate to “hard working dollar pinching” Americans. Also, easily exposed as hypocrites.

Enter Ralph Nader fed up with Democratic's failure to bring an end to the war, as promised; as well as their failure to topple a President severly wounded. That Third Party is looking good to hopefuls in the bleacher seats. Mayor Bloomberg, at least, thought so. Will the person on the street remember the names of the others Left in their camp.

To more fully compensate, let us dedicate this poem to Al Gore (complete and unaltered) in order to restore the "balance":

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.

— Robert W. Service (1874-1958)

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