Strange Food Hoedown
There's something in my food, Dick Cheney
said, gobbling it down. Some strange
people live inside my lunch, and my
heart does not understand their language.
Dick sat there, on a park bench, gnawing
on his lunch, getting strength to go
hunting wild game, as it were, except
the game wasn't that wild, being bred
to be prey, by breeding experts. Create
the illusion that these quail are really
wild, born on the wind currents of time
and space. Are there pansy liberal elitist
creatures in my food, the vice president
growled. He rose from his bench, made a
muscle and snarled, let the hunt begin.
I saw this all up close in a dream,
and when Dick Cheney rose, he blotted
out the sun, and the weather suddenly
turned cold with ice.