ELECTION POEM, '08

Hillary said to Barack O.
Boo Hoo Hoo! I ain’t no ho’!
And behold and lo, it worked like a charm
New Hampshire folks all left the farm
And cast their votes for Mrs. Clinton
Of things to come it could be hintin’
Like Wild Bill back in White House saddle
And Maya Angelou our brains to addle
(“She’s mah fav-rit poet,” said Prez-dent Bill
And lots of other lightweight swill)
So it’s all come down, you wait and see,
to which black lady gets to be
the president’s first spiritual guide
And in the Lincoln room reside:
Angelou or puffy Oprah
She’s the country’s TV Pope, rah!
For U.S. electness, it’s a duel
Of political correctness, and we the fool
Barack’s high card is “girlfriend” Winfrey
While Wild Bill’s is faithful Hillary!
(Oh, it’s the other way, of course
Bill is just Hill’s stalking horse)
It’s one great, reeking, trite soap Oprah
Think it’s hard so far to cope, ya
Ain’t seen nothin’ yet; your fears
Weren’t left behind with Hillary’s tears
This dirt-dumb race is based on skin
And who just spoke the bigger sin:
Hillary’s talk of LBJ’in’
Or Obama’s cagey hope-a-sayin’
You know that Hill said MLK
Wasn’t worth a bale of hay
Compared to President Lyndon Baines’s
Signing’ laws that ended pains-es
Of black American persecution
That was America’s restitution!
Of course she didn’t diss old King
‘Twas tall O-Man who put the sting
In Clinton’s seeming slam at Martin
Which brings us to the real heart in
This whole madness, all the blather
(It almost makes you miss Dan Rather)
Why don’t these prancing martinets
Get out some horns and clavinets
And just blow noise at one another
And all the nightly news, oh brother
Williams, Gibson, CNN
Don’t have the depth of Eminem
You watch the news, do you believe it?
Brain in toilet, can you retrieve it?
These fine prospective nominees
Have thinking people on their knees
While they debate on who took dope
And who evokes more sense of hope
And who can speak the buzz-word, “change”
The most in a debate exchange
(While spending bills like game board cash
Enough to give Greenspan a rash)
And so they've made the sorry race
Into a tete-a-tete on. . .race!
It’s pure slick Willie slitherin’ slidin’
To call O. “nigger” by dodgin’, hidin’
Behind MLK, of things ironic
Next they’ll be weepin’, melancholic
Over dirty trickster accusation
“Can’t we keep things elevatin’?”
What we need is good old Monica
To come back and blow on Bill’s harmonica
To get old lady Hill a-weepin’
And up the polls her numbers creepin’
Divorce would be a sure-fire way
To win the hearts of the USA!
But this, of course, ain’t gonna happen
Bill’s old dog is mostly nappin’
And so we’re left with less excitin’
Ranting, raving, and testifyin’
The O-man wants the world a-thinkin’
He’s Kennedy, King, and maybe Lincoln
And Oprah shouts, from sea to sea
Win with me and you’ll be free
And Mrs. B. will straighten you out:
“Barack’s a slob, but have no doubt
He’ll change the world, not just D.C.
He’s the man of the future, can’t you see?”
Well, many a soul just swallow it all
That “hope” is O-man’s beck and call
(Never mind Barack’s a smoker
At least he not a lying toker!)
He’s walking, talking harmony
Half-black, half-white, part Galilee
And never mind that snide remark to
Hillary, it was just a lark---
Barack O.’s the man to reign
Fuggedabout his middle name
(Hussein, it is, so conspiracy theorist
Can claim he’s just an Islamicist)
The crux of this sad, sorry matter
Is there's no substance in his patter!
And Hillary, God---even worse
Her liveliness is drawn by hearse
“Process,” “voice,” and “change” palaver
Could not compete with Ford’s cadaver
And for content’s wretched sake
I must point out her hollow, fake
“End the war” triangulation
Is empty as her fluctuation
About the vote to give Bush power
To nuke the world down to last flower
And let us not to be forgettin’
That Bushes and Clintons are a-settin’
Down together to schmooze and booze
And man-talk ‘bout some female flooze
These royal scions are kissin’ cousins
Of each other and Arab dozens
Mwah and mwah on cheeks they pucker
And think inside, you mother---Duck! Er. . .
So much crap is raining down
We need a toilet paper crown
And no substantial observation
On this election situation
Would carry any real weight
Without acknowledging Israel’s fate
Whoever’s prez, hey, it’s a lock that
He or she’s in AIPAC’s pocket. . .
And now before I end these couplets
There’s one more bit of cynical muck, let’s
Sum things up with proper grimness
(As our wittedness is getting dimness)
The other side boasts things still worse
Than Hillary or Obama curse
I mean, elect a guy who thinks the earth
Was conjured just before his birth?
Huckabee, now there’s a name
That makes you think of honey and Twain
That wall-eyed crackpot former fat man
Thinks Jesus Christ is just like Batman
And then there’s Mormon Romney, Mitt
Who obviously is full of sh, quiet, it
Sounds like a funeral when he’s talkin’
As if a nice pine box he’s hawkin’
Elect that guy and see how gorey
Is the world’s return to Christian guy-lor-ay!
Then, twitching, barking, and talkin’ smack
John McCain’s come fightin’ back
You could almost hear the Wall Street sigh
When McCain knocked Mitt and Huck aside
So goddamn what he’s bullgoose looney
At least he doesn’t believe in mooney
Stuff of magic underwear
Protectin’ Mitt when life ain't fair. . .
John’s part Wayne and part bad hunch
And not a little out to lunch
His deck is only Kings and Jokers
He’ll get Osama with a red-hot poker!
Or McCain just might turn out mild
It was a lie, that black love child
An orphaned tot, it was, he raised
And that speaks well for someone crazed
Yeah, John-boy tends to shout and rage
Thanks to Vietnam torture cage
Still it might be fun to watch him boil
As he nukes Iran and grabs the oil
Heckuva lot more entertainin’
Than Mr. Nook-yoo-luhr Xanax Brainin’
But it’s all moot, this rhyming ranting
And so is voting, and slogan-chanting
It’s true, that dying can be brave,
Unless you mean democracy’s grave
Which is to say, in awkward fashion
Diebold’s a funny name for fascism
The machine that counts your heartfelt X
Is surer than successful sex
Between a cat and kangaroo
on Mars, L.A., or Saskatoon
Your touch-screen votes are permanent as
An unrecorded note of jazz
It’s ironic, all, the vote parade
And old electoral count charade
When a simple keyboard stike, command
Can erase the will of this great land.
Of course it’s all just Wonderlandin’
To think that votin’ keeps your hand in
The remains of this democracy---
That land of the craven, and not so free.


                                             BACK TO PAGE ONE

© 2008 Rip Rense. All rights reserved.