Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Junior G-Man

This was written four years ago, but it retains
at least one major criterion for publication on the blog: it bites!

Junior, G - man now at last, swings his feet up on the desk
where bigger shoes have rested in the past.
His smallish Stetson, just five gallons,
hangs upon the outstretched hand of Jefferson,
a bronze he really doesn’t like,
a man we think he’ll really never understand.

The statue left behind by some guy who preceded him-
How many were there? Hard to tell...
The times before his dad and Dutch he can’t remember well
The days when he was still a drinkin’ man,
Before he had that temperance walk upon the beach with Graham.

Behind his back the famous Garden sits
Where Bushes of a different color bloomed before.
Now gray and snowy
but come spring, when winter ends,
filled with Texas pals and friends
firing up the barbecue.
Nothing else for him to do,
with all those fellows
that his father made him bring
taking care of business,
passing out the favors,
collecting on the debts,
making sure the congress gets
the message that the grownups
once more are in charge;
cleaning any incidental mess,
shooing out unfriendly members of the press
whose growing skepticism
might be giving him a headache
in an extra large,
and standing by the oval office door
to muffle any rap
that might intrude upon a four year nap.

But thorny issues on his plate, just now--
Plan Columbia, an Ohio town, growing drugs
or sniffing them, or selling them
He doesn’t know what all, he shrugs.
And shipping them through Mexico, a continent away, he thinks.
He’d been to all those places in the race that brought him here--
He blinks and blinks and blinks.
Remembering them is just so hard!
Need to get Marines or tanks or new B-ones down there
and find out
what the heck the problem is.
Does O-HI-O have
a national guard?

And fat old Sa-dam, out there in Iraq
building nukes and guns behind our back.
He’ll just have Colin take him to the woodshed once again
“We shouldda creamed that dude the first time out
Back in Austin we would execute the guy.
Hey, you A--Rab, your butt’s gonna fry
Just let me get my hands on ya’ll!”
Him, leaning out the window,
We can hear him shout
across the White House lawn,
an echo bouncing up and down the mall.

There’s all that real estate tied up by Clinton in his final days
when congress wasn’t here to watch the store,
making sure it stayed unlocked,
and now they have to bust the door
to undo all the knots that Willie tied around the parks.
Dick Cheney says that there are ways,
and Dad says don’t go off half cocked.
Dang that slick guy anyhow!
Junior’d like to feed him to the sharks.

But Ray’s hatched up some plea to let the bastard slide
and get away with all the lies he ever told,
so every road that’s never built through Yellowstone
to cut a tree,
to drill for oil,
to shoot the Bush Kalashnikov;
for every lease on drill rights that’s unsold,
For every pristine canyon
that must go without a hydro dam
Sonny knows Bill’s breathing free
not chained up in the slam
where every decent person knows he oughtta be-
“all those loyal folks out there who’d rather vote for me
than Gore or Bub...”
don’t go there, Dub.

Two signs
Take just a sec to guess which one sits on Dubya’s desk.
With lots of brains poor Junior wasn’t blessed.
Jim Mall, Chicago, Illinois, ‘naugeration day / 20 Jan. 2001

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