So glad you came by today.
Thank you for sharing the really neat poem.
My humble addition to the poetry page:
NINE MEN OUT
The outlook wasn’t rosy for the Donkey nine that day;
The President had won the war but they had yet to bray.
So when Al Sharpton headed south and Kerry followed suit;
The other seven hit the road, down to the land of Newt.
The first to hit the stump was Al, the Reverend at large;
To beat the Bushies in oh-four would seem to be his charge.
His audience was hushed in fear, and pondering how high
The do-re-mi would have to be for Al to say goodbye.
For though they knew that Mr. Sharpton didn’t stand a chance,
His will commanded millions who they needed to romance.
His battle cry descended like a leaden ton of bricks;
"I'm going to slap this donkey ‘round until the donkey kicks.”
Up next came Joseph Lieberman whose aim was to assuage;
His stance was Lilliputian as he looked across the stage;
“I am the only Dem who stands a chance to win this race
To wrest the U.S. people from their Bushian embrace.”
When Edwards rose to rouse the crowd, his flaxen locks were fiery;
“Note to self--get haircut,” wrote Phil Graham into his diary.
Then Dennis K. got up and did his stardust shake and bake;
“I’ll run things just as well as in my city by the lake.”
“My father was a milkman,” said Dick Gephardt flushed with pride;
“And I’m a common working man--that cannot be denied.”
“My work ethic is sterling, though I’m not a man to gloat;”
“And I’ll go back to Congress someday soon to cast a vote.”
When Dean went after Kerry, Mr. Heinz then took his cue;
“I don’t need any courage lessons from a shrimp like you!”
And Dean retorted angrily, his teeth all in a clench;
“I’ll bet the ‘F’ in John F. Kerry really stands for ‘French’.
Next up to speak was Moseley Braun, the gal from Illinois;
Her task that day was to waylay her party’s whipping boy.
To thrill the crowd she cried out loud in lachrymose lament;
“This White House interloper’s a ‘selected president!’”
And on they went, this moving feast of Bushwhacking delight;
Across the fruited plain they sped with tales of urban blight.
Of women’s rights and Senior plights and poison in the air;
They had to find their champion, their psyche to repair.
Oh how they longed for bygone days with Billy at the helm;
When all the world agreed that all was right within the realm.
With Madeline and Joycelyn; and Foster, Reich and Brown;
No price too steep for favors when the Billster was in town.
And oh, the funds were rolling in like waves from distant seas;
From friends in Indonesia and those cuddly Red Chinese.
But now the loot was drying up, the fat had left the cats;
If only in their bag of tricks was one of Billy’s bats.
But Bubba had been striking out, the FOBs grown few;
His candidates had spit the bit in two thousand and two.
His backing became poison, his endorsement shunned by most;
Unless they reined in Billy the oh-four Dems would be toast.
Oh, somewhere up in Boston the big donors wine and dine;
And Streisand’s singing somewhere where the liberals like her fine;
And someday Dem conventioneers will back a winning pup;
But they’ll be no joy in Beantown, Billy Clinton won’t shut up.