Sunday, 24 April 2016

His True Colors

Look who's low energy now!
Like a kid taking Ritalin cured,
The New Donald is seen but not heard;
Though life is more calm,
We can't hide the qualm
That a clockwork orange is absurd! 

Flushed with victory?
Though Christians couldn't help but recoil at
His thoughts on abortion, they're loyal yet;
But they'll reach for the Drano
If he follows the rainbow
Straight down a unisex toilet.

Clear all?                               
While journos ask, "Does he or doesn't he?" 
It's his language, not looks, that's so puzzly:
With Cruz crying fraud,
And supporters unawed,
By a plan defined more and more fuzzily.

As chameleons change with the flower,
Trump boasts great adaptational power; 
But he's in for a fall,
If he climbs down from the Wall,
Going from lizard to snake within the hour!

So, as managers make him tone it down,
He'll be swallowing his words for a crown;
But if on his diet he's starts cheating, 
Foes again may be eating
Something soft and disgusting and brown!

Thursday, 21 April 2016

Double Cross Saw Buck

Old Hickory must be rolling in his grave -
Planter supplanted by a 4th estate slave!
Just another hero honor couldn't save,
Homeless in the former home of the brave.

Tis said the Master ran a right tight ship,
And at the Hermitage could oft let rip;
But as the Tubby-haters bite their lip,
We learn Obama, too, can use the whip!

Sunday, 17 April 2016

Rebel Without a Clause

     Ready, set, go to hell!   
It's a race to the bottom, they say. So be it, answers Trump. But is it really a race - or a game of street chicken? Like the delinquent adolescent that Ann Coulter (still one of his best supporters) likens him to, Trump is not one to back away from a contest of wills. Time and again he's revved up his fifties-era custom rod, blower and all, and come roaring down Mainstreet, the James Dean of political challenge. And, every time, it's the white shoe boys of the RNC and their mainstream mechanics that lose. The latest dust-up over the campaign manager that didn't - assault anyone, that is, and the candidate that wouldn't - fire him, that is, being a case in point. Loyalty is the first test of a conservative and Trump's got it. And in the end, what is loyalty except a kind of courage, His adversaries  have got the fancy machine with the big stock engine. But Trump's got the nerve.
     But does he have the delegates??? 
If not, Cleveland is a whole new race. Supercharging and nerve alone won't be enough. Maneuvering and judgment will also come into play, i.e., skill. The word is, though, that the artist of the deal isn't up to a brokered convention. He wants to turn the Grand Prix into a Demo Derby. Why is Trump spinning his wheels in show-off frustration while Cruz is under the hood tinkering and thinking?  Cruz knows the rules, clause by cunning clause. He's a lawyer. Trump's an actor. He can deal right enough because it is, as he writes, an art. But he's not used to rules or to being overruled by others who are used to them. He keeps spinning the fiction that a majority of delegates should take the prize, overlooking the fact that he does not now have and may not have a majority before Cleveland, but only a plurality. A majority can be his only at the final ballot.
          1237, go to heaven; 1236, pick up sticks. 
So there's Lyin' Ted picking up every delegate he can maneuver out of the pile while Trump, steamed at the "unfairness" of it all, wants to tell everyone to go to hell. Dear Donald, you bought into those same rules when you started this. So get back in the race and start ruling again!  

Saturday, 16 April 2016

When in Rome

Now some Syrian migrants from Greece,
In the Vatican found a new lease,
Where they'd happily dwell
With the dumb infidel,
Who blessed their "religion of peace."

Soon they were living in clover,
And communion was all that they strove for:
Though the wine was haram,
For the blood of the lamb,
By Allah, their cup ranneth over!

In the morning the strains of adhan,
Vied with the bells of St. Anne,
So for harmony's sake
She got a remake,
And now it's a mosque with a ban.

Being folks with a modesty obsession,
Art tended to make an impression,
So in the famous chapel
The guards had to grapple
To save Adam from naked aggression!

But there's solace for the Islamic sons,  
Fleeing the Caliphate's guns:
They'll feel right at home
Next a medieval dome, 
Where the women are all veiled as nuns!

And for kissing each journo-jihadi,
Il Papa was top sugar daddy;
The heights that they caroled 
His praises should herald
A renaissance in the art of castrati!

Sunday, 3 April 2016

Tales from the South

Now, Brer Rabbit accosted Tar Baby,
For insulting his bare-naked lady;
After a gaffe or two, 
He was stuck in the goo,
While Brer Rat looked on gleefully shady!

Then Brer Fox shouted,"What a fine catch!
"Let him toss where it's certain he'll scratch."
But he made his escape,
With barely a scrape,
Shouting,"I was bawn in a briar patch!"

Saturday, 2 April 2016

Fatality on Fifth Ave

Was it just lately he bragged like a crim,
He could murder someone and not dim?
But what a surprise,
At a sudden demise,
If that someone turned out to be him!