The Year in Verse
A Politickles Retrospective
OUT OF TIME
How I leapt into 2005
And pursued all my plans with such drive!
But it’s now crystal clear
That there’s not enough year
Before 2006 will arrive.
As sure as night is dark and day is light,
I hear his tunes replay both day and night,
That man in black has stood the test of time
With songs as fine as “I Walk the Line.”
Tell me how can an innocent Child —
Holy Infant, so tender and mild —
Be the object of scorn
From the moment He’s born:
Rejected, resented, reviled?
Is there somewhere I can go
That the Santas do not know,
A Santa-free zone
I can call my own
And not hear that “ho ho ho”?
“Merry Christmas!” she crowed, and then smiled,
Leaving less seasoned shoppers beguiled.
“Now get out of my way
‘Cause I don’t have all day
And I must have that toy for my child!”
If your husband’s a Thanksgiving fan
And a cranberry sauce kind of man,
You might make him a batch
Of the sauce all from scratch,
But he’ll miss that weird goop in the can!
If you think all the stamp hikes too many
And wish not to pay one more penny,
Then the man to enshrine
On the new Thirty-Nine
Is the comically constant Jack Benny.*
They complained when the Democrats ran
The Congressional pork-barrel plan,
So why don’t they ask an
To table his boondoggle span?
If we run out of names for a squall
And we cannot accommodate all
Of the hurricanes heeded
When the season’s completed,
Then the alphabet’s clearly too small.
“Be careful when choosing new hires
And make sure they fulfill your desires;
If you want to choose wiser,
Ask a trusted advisor.
— Yours truly, Harriet Miers.”
Will we ever develop the knack
Of remembering how to keep track,
Overcoming the “block”
Of resetting our clock:
To “fall forward” or, rather, “fall back”?
When desperate disasters begin,
They don’t have to send anyone in,
‘Cause these people who care
Are already there —
In the places they always have been.
Emily Post and etiquette pros
Say one shouldn’t pick one’s nose.
I guess they’re right,
‘Cause a satellite
Just might photograph that pose.
You strive and you strive and you strive
Until, finally, at last you arrive!
Then you lose your nice home —
Everything that you own —
And thank God that at least you’re alive.
Here’s a problem that is knotty
And could drive a person dotty:
When a meeting’s not brief,
The Commander in Chief
Sometimes has to use the potty.
You might meet him for pastries and punch,
But I have the most harrowing hunch
That you’d better decline
When he utters this line:
“I am eager to have you for lunch.”
New Orleans is under attack
As savages rampage and sack.
How long will they loot,
How long will they shoot,
Before somebody finally shoots back?
There are times in our lives to restart,
Times when everything comes apart:
Do you know what it means
To miss New Orleans
When that’s where you left your heart?
Why feel sorry for the slain
While you’re sucking out his brain,
Tearing off of him
Every little limb,
If he cannot feel real pain?
“Every church and school’s the same:
Still my children bring me shame.
If it’s not the preachers
And it’s not the teachers,
Then I don’t know who’s to blame!”
Fully formed are your heart, soul, and mind
With the facts of a faith well defined.
Now we send you to college,
Where a secular “knowledge”
Will ensure that belief’s undermined.
“There’s no need for you to yell.
You’ll just have to wait a spell.
Don’t you know it’s rude
For someone to intrude
When I’m talking on my cell?”
The support for Dick Cheney is swellin’
As more and more people are sellin’
His name for the slate
In 2008 —
If only to get rid of Helen!
Nothing Bush could win, but still he won.
Nothing Bush could spin, but still he spun.
All he needs is Rove.
All he needs is Rove.
Rove. Rove. Rove’s his all-in-one.
“My name is Valerie Plame.
Don’t tell anyone my name.
I’m a super spy
Who’s super shy.
Did I mention my name was Plame?”
From first principles he won’t budge.
Constitutionally he won’t fudge.
But with Durbin and Biden
And their buddies decidin’,
He’s not “fit” to become a judge.
After Kelo, your rights are through
And there’s nothing that Metro can’t do:
They own your house,
They own your spouse,
They own you and your children, too.
Does he secretly sport a turban?
Does he overindulge in bourbon?
If the man’s not insane,
How are we to explain
The intemperate remarks of Durbin?
I apologize to you
For the thing I did not do.
I am not the one
Who did what was done
— And for that I’m sorry, too.
Marijuana has helped me a lot!
It’s a marvel, this medical “pot”!
My condition’s the same,
But I’m pleased to proclaim
I’ve forgotten what illness I’ve got!
It’s time for the panel to vote
For a man in a grey trench coat.
In a choice among three,
Which one can it be?
Which one is the real “Deep Throat”?
Though the outcome was a shock
To French President Chirac,
If you think “C’est le fin!
He won’t dare try again,”
Then you clearly don’t know Jacques!
You may talk o’ gents sincere,
Even meet one ‘ere an’ there
In the ‘eartland where such things are sometimes seen;
But when it comes to blather,
There are few besides Dan Rather
Who can really dish it out like Gung-ho Dean!
Now in DC’s sunny clime,
Where there’s ‘ot air all the time
And a person never talks when ‘e can scream,
Of all that gaseous crew
The gassiest man I knew
Was the Democratic chairman, Gung-ho Dean.
It was Dean! Dean! Dean!
You bellowin’, blusterin’ blow-‘ard Gung-ho Dean!
Though I shout and shake and drool,
Roll my eyes and play the fool,
You’re a battier man than I am, Gung-ho Dean!
We’ve become the men of the hour,
But our spouses rapidly sour:
It seems our mates
Preferred their fates
When we had less staying power.
I once got food to go
And found a garlic toe,
A heel of bread
And a cabbage head,
With an ear of corn below.
Smokers may be disliked as a class,
But some others are even more crass:
You might never choke
On their secondhand smoke,
But watch out for that secondhand gas!
Princes (presto) out of frogs!
Hind-leg standing, talking dogs!
These fanciful fictions
Become certain predictions
When Science usurps and befogs.
What a pious, preposterous “spin”
Was applied to the dissidents’ din
As they held out the hope
For a new kind of pope
Who would give dispensation to sin!
Every hole a golfer’s downed,
Lying knocked out on the ground.
I won’t ignore
To yell out “Fore!”
Next time I go around.
I remember the blear Berlin Wall
And the day that it started to fall,
And the part that was played
By a man unafraid —
The inspired and inspiring John Paul.
Our community’s pillars once stood
Tall and proud when they did what they should!
Doctors strive now to kill,
Judges do what they will,
And police are arresting the good.
My obesity just isn’t funny
And I’m suing for bundles of money:
When a basket of candy
Is too full and too handy,
Who’s to blame but the old Easter Bunny?
Why are Clinton and Kerry emphatic,
Their support for “reform” automatic?
Why are Hillary and John
So extremely pro-con?
They expect him to vote Democratic!
Mary Shelley must surely have known
Generations to come would condone
The prescient prediction
In her monstrous fiction
Of a man to be made as a clone.
You’re opposed to mercy killing
And consider the prospect chilling,
But supposing you
Can’t express your view
And your relatives are willing?
Alarmists like to heighten
Anxieties and frighten —
Their aim’s made clear
In State of Fear
By author Michael Crichton.
Will our paths someday entwine?
Will your faithful heart be mine?
It would be so nice,
If you’d be my Valentine!
Some conservative columnists know
How to puff up their post-status quo,
But I’m stuck in a stall
‘Cause the White House won’t call
With down payments of dubious dough.
Now Saddam knows for sure they don’t need him:
They have chosen their brethren to lead them,
And the dye on their fingers
In memory lingers
As the emblem of long-denied freedom.
As a youth, I made this vow:
I would save the world somehow.
Well, I did the trick
A bit too quick —
What on earth shall I do now?
“Shall I never see the morn?
Hear a rattle, bell, or horn?
Or taste the air?
Or touch your hair?
Must I die before I’m born?”
The Republicans have been disgraced
By their failure to rein in the waste.
Are they really expected
To get reelected
When they act like the pigs they replaced?
A narcissist went to extremes
To marry the one he esteems;
He walked with a smile
All alone down the aisle:
He, himself, was the one of his dreams.
The criticism may be intense
Of his Secretary of Defense,
But George Bush is no dummy:
He’ll be sticking with “Rummy,”
As a matter of common sense.