“Step away from the chipper!,” says Marge,
The pregnant literary sheriff at large.
Thinking all `twas in fun,
Dood turns, tries to run,
Butt cheek scarred by her pistol’s discharge…
“Oh, jeeze, just what were you thinkin’?”
Margie asks with some tearin’ and blinkin’.
“This little fella’s now dead,
Snow tinted green, `stead of red,
And all his gold, won’t keep your rhymin’ from stinkin’…”
(five more after the fold)
Duck and cover! It’s the soften-em-up phase,
Of the 9/11-Iraq memorial craze.
Lobbing rhetorical mortars,
A last ditch call to quarters,
Old-Dubya’s-Been-Ladin’ this blaze…
Bush administration keeps ignoring the plight,
Of honored vets they continue to slight.
Returning them honed,
To an unintended war zone,
Steadfastly and superficially contrite.
Hmmm… where before have we seen use of this tact,
Where blame’s shifted to the abusee’s mid-back?
Announced tours of duty;
Four more years sounds like doodie,
When parsed to frame all the blame on Iraq.
`Tis so sad and it looks so whitefacey,
This “Camp Qualls” in response to “Camp Casey”.
These opposite retreads,
Argue kill more instead;
A better name might be simply “Camp Spacey”…
Lance Armstrong, cycling’s modern day hero,
Went riding with our presidential zero,
White House spokesman Trent Duffy,
After a ride on his Huffy,
Fiddled afterward, and shilled Iraq’s Nero.
