DoggerelPundit

Avon's calling dept.

2008-02-14T18:28:00.000-08:00

Truly the Thing

Old Will said all the world's a stage.
His actors we are not;
But clumsy playwrights ill directing
Drafts writ misbegot.
We plot, we scene, we block, we stage
To salve and save our hearts.
Fault lies in us? nay! stubborn casts
Refuse to play their parts!

2007-12-06T09:18:00.000-08:00

Fat to Fatuus

With Messieurs Hopkins, Reeves, and Ogilvy
We core the heart of advertising's tale.
Good facts and benefits drive U.S.P.;
Esteem the product, and say what’s for sale.
This line was held the while our Board was clear,
Plain verity the value we essayed,
Thus buyers motivated without fear.
(Without which, we'd have never gotten paid)
New board demands: hot prospects entertained
With Mission; Bio; Logo; Bulbous claim!
Yea qualities of mercy are not strained,
Too bad our advertising ain't the same.
To save the brand, to rescue revenue
Now summon succor; Killian's merry crew.

This Memorial Day

2007-05-26T09:59:00.000-07:00

The Fallen

There are ways among the bowers
Where counted numbers pass.
Steps nodded by by flowers
But barely stir the grass,
As though ethereal notion
Is all these ways have known,
And yet may some devotion
See drops fallen on the stone.

Wander the streets and sidewalks
That grid and ring the town
In that muted hush the hour unlocks
When the gibbous moon lies down.
There plain on ways deserted
Busy throngs may press the lone.
Devotion thus concerted
Sees drops fallen on the stone.

For symphonies unconducted,
For brush strokes yet unviewed,
On stave lines unconstructed,
Bright canvas unsubdued,
Once burned with staunch emotion
The souls of masters known;
As an honest soul’s devotion
Sees drops fallen on the stone.

Who will see the land unseen
The counted travel through
—They who see our duty clean—
And pay the payment due.
And who will pass in blindness,
Passing free yet often shown
Sacred markers that remind us
Of drops fallen on the stone.

The word is the bird dept.

2007-03-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

Tweets His Own

Before you preens the lesser Schumer,
Bi-beaked species of the Boomer.
It roosts on polls and none too sturdy;
Restive crowds doth flip the birdie.

Fowl flay Dept.

2006-12-07T20:35:00.000-08:00

Raptor Up

The Rodham looks a downy bird
With sleek and splendid plumage.
And, seen from far beneath the nest,
Exhibits glossy groomage.

But strident blares its raucous yawp;
The long lens sees the moulting,
The hard hunt look about the eye,
The flesh flecked beak, revolting.

Papa's got a brand new mag. Dept.

2006-10-25T21:28:00.000-07:00

Shiloh’s Pride ...a tale of desperation and triumph...

Out to the range at break of day,
Bringin’ a Winchester—such dismay.
Downin' steel's a shuddering chore
With hits that 'plink' from a thirty bore,
And terrible groups for a grumblin' score
With a forty-five from a furrin shore,
And a Shiloh eighteen months away.

A promisin' looker that seventy-four,
The forty-five from the furrin shore;
There's folks, it's true, who can group 'em cold,
But a chamber reamer went uncontrolled
And made a barrel with a kink, I'm told,
Flingin' each careful cast astray.
And a Shiloh eighteen months away.

Sent chamber casts—with the kink—by post
To the land of corn, and the furrin coast
With an eloquent note, writ most polite
On a factory fault in obvious sight.
Though a second owner's inherited plight,
Steel is steel, please make this right.
'Non possiamo, eez-a not our way'
@%&#$!! (as one might say).
Our good man Bill was called that day
For a Shiloh just five months away.

A number three with a long grained stock
And feathery case on the lever and lock,
Where metal-to-wood will show no slack.
The right trued barrel in velvet black,
With Baldwin & Axtell, front and back.
Two and four tenths for the fire formed tube
To fit big bullets and lots of lube.
And expectation begins to weigh
With the Shiloh only a month away.

Shapin' a Lancaster spreads a mess
In a shop sized right for a one lung press;
"Clear the bench!" came the anguished cry,
"Bring brass and the paper patch supply,
And where the hell is that long trim die?"
With the simmering pot in flux and smoke
The smooth-sides roll from the mould from Hoch,
'Slice them sprues with a single stroke!'
No head for work, no sports hold sway
With the Shiloh only a week away.

Tossed and turned through a half slept night
By a curious dream of a dazzling sight;
Formed up at the sides of the marching grounds
Were columns and ranks of tall brass rounds;
Away in the distance a bugle sounds.
Then passing between this picketed track
Came a caisson waggon, extended back
For a rifle carried in a stalwart rack.
Saw the sun on wood and receiver gleam,
Saw a skinner rein from the front crossbeam,
Drawn by a twenty-one buffalo team...
Awoke with a start and...what the hey?!
Waugh! that Shiloh gits hyar today!

Hurrah! hurrah for the Shiloh clan!
Hurrah! for their excellent plan!
And ever, where white smoke rises high
Toward the dome of the silhouette sky,
The one-shot shooters will praise the name
Of the Shiloh-Sharps—to glorious fame!
The handsome rifle of Christian’s wright,
Raised to their craftsmen’s practiced height.
And worth the dollars and months away,
Like damned few things in life, I say.

(With apologies to Thomas Buchanan Read, and remembrance of his Sheridan's Ride)

On the occasion of D. C. Roe's 2996 Project honoring the men and women of Patriot Day. September 11, 2006

2006-09-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

Come, and say a name with me
From a sky where reflection shone.
A name from a life of family,
America’s and your own.
Come, we’ll say his name aloud
To beckon the memory there
Of the father proud of the family proud
Of his work in the terraced air.

At the back of his mild and easy grin
Live thoughts of his younger days.
Of visits and kids in the northern twin,
Wide eyed at the miles of gaze.
His boy looks down with astonished mind;
The powers of Dads are cool!
His daughter, out to a future signed
At her feet by the brilliant jewel.

Come, and listen for whistling sighs
Of winds you can only see.
Hear breath and voice in the columns rise;
All hollow, if not for these.
The deepest quietest voice he hears
Speaks pride in an honored life;
A murmuring constant across the years
From the hearts of a man and wife.

Here is a Hero, for his is the dream
Of a land renewing and young.
To see it you live with a love agleam
Where the hero's grace is sung.
To memory beckon this grace unbowed;
Reply to renewal's call.
Come, we'll say his name aloud,
The saying to save us all.

Jose's cousin, Ruben Esquilin Jr., also perished in the attack on the World Trade Center. You can read his tribute here.

Sixty...and doing his level best Dept.

2006-08-19T22:42:00.000-07:00

Russ Vaughn is emailing goodies again. Have a look...

A New Willy

Now don’t think me foolish, or just being silly,
When I say that the Democrats need a new Willy.
Their Willy’s gone soft amid fortune and fame,
He’s no longer up, standing tall for the game.
This Willy’s content with the new life he’s found,
Able now to engage in full time fooling ‘round.
Book deals and speech fees have made life so frilly
He’s lost his hard edge, their once potent Willy.

The Left wants a Willy to take on the Right;
A Willy they know will be up for the fight.
They thought theirs was bigger in 2004,
Their John had a Willy with scars from the war;
But the soccer moms voted for ol’ Georgie boy,
Turned on not at all by Teresa’s sex toy.
So again I must say and insist it’s not silly,
If Dems wanna win, they need a new Willy.

Yep Willy’s turned sixty, for Dems a sad day,
With no new young Willies yet ready to play.
Al Gore’s such a bore, so petty and prissy;
Their pretty boy Edwards comes off as a sissy;
And Kerry proved last time he’s just a big wimp;
Yep, for Dems it appears all their Willies are limp.
Their butt’s in a barrel headed straight for Niagara,
Doctor Dean should prescribe pre-election Viagra.

Dems need a firm Willy for the coming election,
One sticking out front, pointing out their direction;
But the Mooresoros Moonbats will take a hard stand,
Demanding a Willy they can squeeze in their hand.
Right now they are thinking a hard-as-nails Hillie,
May be all they have to replace their old Willy;
Not quite the real deal, but hey, what’s the harm?
Like a dildo she’ll do, just lacking the charm.

But who wants our country run by such sillies,
As folks who can’t tell their Hill’s from their Willies?

—Russ Vaughn

2006-08-04T16:50:00.000-07:00

KT

A brush of slender tone and lively eye
As evening's eastern light on darkling hair
Refined her style and carriage hastening by;
A knot was cinched—a turn and she was there!

Adept and standing taller than she was,
Now lit, now limned in graceful silhouette.
A one who finds élan in what she does
Her choring flew, as lively eyes were met.

And oh the promise—stirring as the sky!
Bright masque on artless affability—
Renewed veneer of self inflicted lie;
The nacre layered single grain of plea.
And lone it is in passions never slowed,
Exposed of age, of longing, and the road.

…And a little churl shall lead them Dept.

2006-07-21T07:32:00.000-07:00

Of Kos We Can*

Oh! The voice from the Left ain’t conceptually deft,
This is certain from years of close reading.
'In the way' by design, with no plan to refine
A gross self-centered crave to be leading.
But it's hard to be great when your dogma breeds hate,
And your econ. just plunders your masses;
When your ethos is guilt, in an edifice built
On an outlook through woes colored glasses.
Still, the morally wan
And the spiritually bent
Will attend your salon,
Nay, they'll flock to your tent!
For an outlook through woes colored glasses.

One unfortunate lad philosophically clad
In this raiment of pragmatist nonsense,
Had an unbalanced itch to improve a bad pitch
Pushing less-than-empirical contents.
To a guru, he'd heard, they would flock for The Word
(An approach he has filched from religions)
So he makes in the 'Sphere, with disdain and a sneer,
A big name for himself feeding pigeons.
He just scatters his crumbs
As they land on the walk.
And, with sizeable sums
That he pulls from this flock,
Comes a name for himself feeding pigeons.

Now the pigeon's a fowl not polite like the owl,
With a shortage of brains that depresses.
And, like street-swarming mobs of collectivist snobs,
Often circles in groups and makes messes.
In appraising his 'troots, this analogy suits
The big scene on the screen where they’re flocking;
As the coop-master piques, comes a flashing of beaks
And the rate that they gobble is shocking.
For our pigeon’s a tool
And a mark and a dupe,
Like an avian fool
With the mind of a group,
And the prate that they gobble is shocking.

...While the dapper Old Guard (both the smoking and charred)
Live in sweat as their sway is declining,
Since they've peddled as news faintly prejudiced views
With their 'scoops' and their polls heterodyning.
Now they're shocked at the whore who, unkempt, at the door
Has been summoned by standards invidious,
For, as Gresham embraced, when the coin is debased
The replacement is something more hideous.
There are one or two rules
(Half a dozen's my take)
Whence good ethicist schools
Will predict, if you break;
The replacement is ever more hideous.

Was it Dewey or Skinner, or some modern spinner
Who filled Lefty’s head with commotion;
That a fact isn't real, it's an urge that you feel,
And historical sweep is mere notion.
Which brings us back 'round to where pigeons abound,
And the whiff of decay wafts among us;
Where the rot is most grim you find people like him,
It's the natural function of fungus.
For the morally wan,
And the spiritually bent
Are predictable spawn
Of a rotting ferment.
It’s the natural function of fungus.

*A song of Point from Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Yeomen of the Guard

Nyaah... Dept.

2006-07-18T09:32:00.000-07:00

Leslie?

There's less of the New York Times.
I fear mal chance has come
(From readers saving dimes)
To pinch the silken bum.

There's less of the New York Times,
'Tis no surprise, but steady;
With the daily news it mimes,
And its ethics shrunk already.

There's less of the New York Times,
Da big Manhattan 'rumah'
Where Keller rings the chimes
For dread and a bigger Umma.

There's less of the New York Times,
Thus shrinks Michelle's fish wrapper.
And thus we end these rhymes;
There's less for my two-hole crapper.

2006-06-22T14:31:00.000-07:00

When the time comes most of us just lie down. There are some who do not. Will not.

The Fallen

There are ways among the bowers
Where counted numbers pass.
Steps nodded by by flowers
But barely stir the grass,
As though ethereal notion
Is all these ways have known,
And yet may some devotion
See drops fallen on the stone.

Wander the streets and sidewalks
That grid and ring the town
In that muted hush the hour unlocks
When the gibbous moon lies down.
There plain on ways deserted
Busy throngs may press the lone.
Devotion thus concerted
Sees drops fallen on the stone.

For symphonies unconducted,
For brush strokes yet unviewed,
On stave lines unconstructed,
Bright canvas unsubdued,
Once burned with staunch emotion
The souls of masters known;
As an honest soul’s devotion
Sees drops fallen on the stone.

Who will see the land unseen
The counted travel through
—They who see our duty clean—
And pay the payment due.
And who will pass in blindness,
Passing free yet often shown
Sacred markers that remind us
Of drops fallen on the stone.

Memorial Day 2006

2006-05-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

...Though Heroes live and die to scattered care,
There’s honor understanding honor’s guard.
Reflect and ponder; who is willing there
And why it is so quiet in your yard.

-from Elements of Chance

Birthday Greetings IV

2006-04-27T18:10:00.000-07:00

Saddam Damned. Sad.

A weary twenty-eighth arrives, to find age sixty-nine,
As weary steps from cell to dock pace down your late decline.
While screams of "circus" echo round a shoddy ring in glare,
For tickets, flaccid pundits pimp you; dismal aging bear.

A happy famous birthday this would be, I dare suggest,
If you had fled the middle east and made it to the West.
Our payments, schools, and voting rights, and healthcare you’d partake,
And too! the haters of our land would fête you with a cake!

Previously....

In 2003, we didn't know if he was alive or dead, and sending a card was such a problem...

Damn Sad, Saddam 4/28/03

It's April twenty-eighth today, you could be sixty-six.
So many tried to keep you on; the French and bloodhound Blix.
But you're now past retirement age—high time to sing and laugh.
Unless of course you're strewn about, or gone with al Shahaf.

So here's a birthday greeting; but it's sad, to say the least,
That no one wants to celebrate two numbers of the beast.
The crowds are gone, there's no parade, no hat to show you fatuous;
Your former slaves are thrilled that your hometown is now un-statueous.

In 2004, we did know.

Damn! Sad Saddam 4/28/04

Comes now the twenty-eighth again—you're here! You're sixty-seven!
Why, we thought bunker-busters had sent you to raisin heaven!
Jazeera said you'd not give up; you'd lead, and go down fighting,
But you're the lad who called 'jihad' while in your tank, jihiding.

George Bush has sent you his regards (though that was weeks ago)
And former slaves send greetings, from themselves, and those below.
They're gifting you a forum where you'll stand and take the rap;
They want to put you 'in the loop'—for you, 't will be a snap.

Birthday Greetings III

The Bastard of Baghdad, Saddam Hussein was born April 28 1937. This is year number three in the birthday greetings, er, project. How long can it go on?

Saddam Sad? Damn. 4/28/05

A year gone by? impossible! but hey, you're sixty-eight.
By now, you should have hit the news referred to as "...the late..."
It's been a busy year and, through the bars, you may have heard
There's been a free election, Dude! your president's a Kurd!

Their Congress grips the eye and ear, they've liberation’s taste
While, as old Ozymandias, you decay into the waste.
May despair be all your lot for each long year that lingers,
And bring you low, with steady nudge and sweep of purple fingers.

Swelled Head Dept.

2006-04-13T16:48:00.000-07:00

Tough talk quoted on LGF

"ElBaradei told reporters after arriving at Tehran airport that he believed the time was 'ripe' for a political solution. He said he would try to persuade Iranian authorities to meet international demands for 'confidence-building measures, including suspension of uranium enrichment, until outstanding issues are clarified.' "

The issue has some clarity already.

Good Morning Men...

2006-01-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

Get a Lift

Speak to the eyes, by eyes be bound
Whenas She sees times equal.
Engage the orb above the mound
If you, dear sir, would sequel.

Merry Christmas to all...

2005-12-24T21:44:00.000-08:00

Shades of Christmas

It's late and quiet and only I
Remain awake as sleepers sigh.
Our house is mute, the night withdrawn,
Unstirred, as though the power had gone.
A glow of candles, two or three,
Is all except the lighted tree
As I lay tinsel, each by hand;
From gracefully dangling leaded strand
A soft ice gleam to the needled maze,
This forest fir bids deeper gaze—
Deep, unbeknownst a conjure slips
Around me, midst the needle tips.

I hear the carols! voices strong;
We sang them as a younger song,
A choir of friends, sung with a will.
This wonder stirs to move me, still.
The air grows sharp and I believe
I know this time—it's Christmas Eve—
Rounds of caroling round me hear,
Can there have ever been such cheer?
(As lighted branches fill my eyes
And tinsel surely self-applies)
The choir moves then to separate
And closely milling friends create
A place for me and I am there,
Of special faces now aware,
Familiar voices teasing me
With old and friendly mockery.

I know that boy, tall John it is,
And slender Donna's arm links his.
Angels that have sung on high
Rang true, I met that in their eye.
And impish Jacquie, happy child
Who secretly my heart beguiled.
I see her pleased and singing there,
Her night chilled face, red ginger hair.
There! Jack and Paul, my merry chums
God rest ye, bring ye sugar plums!
Such mischief made by honest friends!
(That never called for grave amends)
Hear! Sandi's sweet soprano voice
Will bear the meaning of rejoice!
The chorus swells as times compressed
I hear and see how I'd been blessed.
Abrupt the spell fell, to a yawn,
My hands were bare, the tinsel gone.

A birthday is a magic time
When spirits glow and souls may chime;
It's Christmas then, the highest call
As Charlie showed us, each in thrall.
And you may conjure as he did
(Provided you were once a kid)
Yet such a spell is not won free
But needs your honeyed memory.
With all your friends see close and deep
If conjured memories you would keep
To summon joy's reclusive elf
You mark each larger than yourself.
The season's magic lies in you
As I have seen, and you will too,
Thus hear and say, with pleasant tears,
A Merry Christmas across the years.

My fog’s thicker than yours! Dept.

2005-11-17T16:31:00.000-08:00

Bloggers one and many have observed on the spectacle of the Leftist eating its own. Now, the malady has struck The Vagina Monologues. You might say it was right there in the cue cards. If we haven't got the right people bashing the right people, where are we, anyway?

Ostiumporosis

The Monologues sought near and far
     For players; Margots, Susans, Dinahs.
Now we find—and how bizarre—
     They went and cast the wrong *

White and Black (and Red and Yellow?)
     Set in roles by Ensler's highness,
Now the staging’s gone un-mellow;
     Grievance cleaves the strong *

PC logic drills the masses
     Typecast with no trace of shyness;
Roles for color, roles for classes,
     No role for unique *

Search precisely lists of bashists
     From this pack of shrieking Mynahs,
You won’t find Islamo-fascists'
     Sisters, with removed *

Gladly most, past ancient pharaohs
     Feel the firmer call of Venus,
Wish, at arrowed prick from Eros,
     Loving dialogue with *

Verse from Russ Vaughn

2005-11-14T09:55:00.000-08:00

Paristine
With a nod to Joseph Farah at World Net Daily

Jacques and his frères are surely weeping
Les pauvres immigrès have caught them sleeping,
Paysans revolt, their emotions churning,
What’s that odeur? Is Paris burning?
Within the banlieues there’s no joy
Among les jeunes who are sans emplois
What, take a job? Not the way to go;
We’d rather riot, torch your Peugeot.

Ah, Mother France you took us in
Then left us with no way to win
We’re not ègal, not garçons blanc,
We’ve no real chance to earn a franc.
No, what we are, we’re useful fools,
For leftist dreams, just brown-skinned tools.
So the Rèpublique’s butt is in a crack,
Give your merci to Jacques Chirac.

We’ll breed you into minority,
Till only mullahs hear your plea,
And Shari’a rules throughout your land,
A Frenchman steals, he’ll lose his hand.
Your licentious lifestyle, long extolled,
Will leave your women stoned, dead cold.
But everything will turn out fine,
In the Muslim Republic of Paristine.

—Russ Vaughn

Veterans Day

2005-11-11T08:20:00.000-08:00

...Though Heroes live and die to scattered care,
There’s honor understanding honor’s guard.
Reflect and ponder; who is willing there
And why, it is so quiet in your yard.

-from Elements of Chance

Greeks Baring Rifts Dept.

2005-10-26T12:01:00.000-07:00

Just in time for Halloween, the Goebbles ectoplasm has slimed another news desk. Michelle Malkin shows the results.

Illuminoti

Last night I saw Diogenes,
As yet on his timeless tramp.
His gait and bearing showed his years;
He was towing a wheeled search-lamp.

I varied the ancient question
Put to this Greek nocturnalist;
"Why a lamp of such candlepower?
I am seeking an honest journalist."

Via Instapundit

Bacon, Sausage, Tenderloin, Pancetta, Boston Butt, Chops, Baby back ribs, Ham, and Crispy rinds Dept.*

2005-09-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

A Natural World

Consider the sweep of the sky's deep azure bowl;
The roil of clouds, the stately stars unending.
Vast cosmic imagery nurtures the human soul,
And effectively pictures demand for government spending.

Consider the physical world with its rules and laws
Of gravity, speed, of light and thermodynamic.
As nature abhors a vacuum; without pause
The multitude sucking for bucks is panoramic.

Consider the lilies abloom in proverbial fields,
Sans toil or spin they grace the carpeting grasses.
The lowing, feasting herds 'mid beauteous yields
Are milked for millions to study prosaic gasses.

Consider the Solon ensconced in edict's hall.
He is rhymed with stolen, whether active or retired.
In the public clamor for boodle he takes the fall;
Is he only delivering that for which he was hired?

Consider our human intelligence and its choice
For thoughtful response to calamities unforeseen.
Perhaps it is you and I need change our voice
To demands for expenditures mightily less porcine.

*Fat tip to Russ Emerson

Unnatural Actress Dept.

2005-08-03T09:53:00.000-07:00

With a hat tip to Ollie North for the title

Jihad Jane

What a prize to show for her life of toil,
A bus that runs on vegetable oil;
To keep it running will prove no strain,
Run a fuel line from her peanut brain.
As once again she shows us all
How wrong we are and how we'll fall.
She'll grant no quarter, cut no slack,
Get her picture taken on a camel's back.

Jihad Jane will show us once again,
She's smarter than all the President's men;
I doubt Sun Tzu could tell us more
Than Jihad Jane when it comes to war;
She'll save the world, bold Barbarella,
More wily and wise than any Army fella.
While she fancies herself truly Machiavellian
A more apt description is piggy Orwellian.

It's true Jane could write an encyclopedia
On fooling the drooling mainstream media.
Princes of primetime breathlessly follow;
Sputum she spouts they eagerly swallow.
Trumpet her tripe as trustworthy truth,
Pushing her pap down the throats of our youth.
Reporters will climb right on down in that sewer,
Covering every mile of Jane's veggie-fueled tour.

While wiser minds wait, holding their breath,
Warily wondering just how much death
All her agitprop antics will incite this time,
And whose lives will be forfeit for one fool's crime.
In most scripts of life, we become wiser with age;
But this airhead actress cannot get to that page.
So she'll be well remembered, as well she should,
As the dumbest damned broad in Hollywood.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Infantry
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

The Mouth Shall Rise Dept.

2005-07-08T13:48:00.000-07:00

LONDON-Goiters News Service. In a stunning upset, George "Gimmeoil" Galloway was today elected Prime Minister. The oily former MP from Little Storping-on-Islam met with the Queen at Windsor shortly after a contentious speech in the House of Commons, excerpted below. Later this week he will take up residence at Number 10 Downer Street.

“...To form a new Administration of this scale and complexity is a serious undertaking in itself, but it must be remembered that we continue to dick around in the preliminary stage of one of the greatest battles in history, that we can avoid action at many points in the Middle East, that we can give up Germany, France and Holland, that we have to be prepared to back off in the Mediterranean. Now that heavy appeasement has taken its toll, many preparations have to be made here at home. Gimme oil.

In this crisis I hope I may be pardoned if I do not address the House at any length today. I have little to say that will help. I hope that any of my friends and colleagues, or former friends and colleagues, and those who have helped to pay me off, who are affected by the political reconstruction, will make all allowance for lack of ceremony, forethought, and common sense with which it has been necessary to avoid action. I would say to the House, as I said to those who have joined the Government; I have nothing to offer but blood toil tears and sweat. Literally. There will be no new ideas or commitments. No defense of our culture. No way.

We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. Self defense. We have before us a chance to avoid many, many long months of struggle and of suffering and thereby completely scuttle Western culture. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage appeasement, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us: to wage appeasement to a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. This is our policy. Up yours!

You ask, What is our aim? I can answer in one word: Defeat - defeat - at all costs, defeat, in the face of all terror, defeat, however long and hard the road may be; for without defeat, there is no payoff for Georgie Galloway. Let that be realised; no survival for the British Empire; no survival for all that the British Empire has stood for, no survival for the urge and impulse of the ages, that mankind will move forward. Goody! Let it slide and gimme more oil.

I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men. At this time I feel entitled to claim the aid of all, not to mention more oil money from all. And I say, come then, let us step backward and fall on our asses together, with our divided weakness. Oh, and more oil.”

How it was

Despise and Resent of the Senate Dept.

2005-06-23T14:31:00.000-07:00

D - is for his words of Denigration,
U - is where to shove them, as in UP,
R - Regrets his mental constipation,
B - asks is he Bats or just a schlup;
I - is for Islamists he is helping,
N - means this is NOT protecting me,

Put them all together they spell DURBIN
Too bad he’s not a detainee!

Son of a Switch Dept.

2005-06-10T09:20:00.000-07:00

Senator Schumer as we OFTEN see and hear him

Senator Schumer as we would LIKE to see and hear him

Senator Schumer as he REALLY is!

(PS - ear and eye protection, dipwad)

Memorial Day—

2005-05-30T00:05:00.000-07:00

2005-05-12T12:52:00.000-07:00

Suggested by this delightful post at Roger L. Simon's place...

Sugar ‘n’ spice ‘n’ everything nice;
A dream often pitched to us misters.
But it’s one rare delight (no matter how slight)
To find sweet and nice in the sisters.

Now, we see the appeal in a mettle of steel;
The attraction that bravery carries,
But must they engage, in our broadminded age,
With the loom of Attila or Aries?

For a bellicose head where no knowledge was spread
Is an auto at speed with no driver.
Steering clear of some crash from the half-baked and rash
Needs good learning; let no one deprive her.

Does the cerebral void in the Congress’ employed
Only gape in the brains of the distaff?
Or is ignorance vast most often surpassed
By a Senator, Rep, and all his staff.

May they stick to the facts in debating their acts,
May they find that sound judgment is quiet,
That a credible source lends an argument force
And well read is well said; may they try it.

Birthday Greetings III

2005-04-28T00:40:00.000-07:00

The Bastard of Baghdad, Saddam Hussein was born April 28 1937. This is year number three in the birthday greetings, er, project. How long can it go on?

Saddam Sad? Damn.

A year gone by? impossible! but hey, you're sixty-eight.
By now, you should have hit the news referred to as "...the late..."
It's been a busy year and, through the bars, you may have heard
There's been a free election, Dude! your president's a Kurd!

Their Congress grips the eye and ear, they've liberation’s taste
While, as old Ozymandias, you decay into the waste.
May despair be all your lot for each long year that lingers,
And bring you low, with steady nudge and sweep of purple fingers.

In 2003, we didn't know if he was alive or dead, and sending a card was such a problem...

Damn Sad, Saddam 4/28/03

It's April twenty-eighth today, you could be sixty-six.
So many tried to keep you on; the French and bloodhound Blix.
But you're now past retirement age—high time to sing and laugh.
Unless of course you're strewn about, or gone with al Shahaf.

So here's a birthday greeting; but it's sad, to say the least,
That no one wants to celebrate two numbers of the beast.
The crowds are gone, there's no parade, no hat to show you fatuous;
Your former slaves are thrilled that your hometown is now un-statueous.

In 2004, we did know.

Damn! Sad Saddam 4/28/04

Comes now the twenty-eighth again—you're here! You're sixty-seven!
Why, we thought bunker-busters had sent you to raisin heaven!
Jazeera said you'd not give up; you'd lead, and go down fighting,
But you're the lad who called 'jihad' while in your tank, jihiding.

George Bush has sent you his regards (though that was weeks ago)
And former slaves send greetings, from themselves, and those below.
They're gifting you a forum where you'll stand and take the rap;
They want to put you 'in the loop'—for you, 't will be a snap.

Bolton out of the blue Dept.

2005-04-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

In The Moody

That onion in my sandwich dropped my smile
To just a line across—near to a frown.
And glower is my gloomy facial style
Adopted when the crusts are way too brown.

Last Saturday the garden raised my ire
To see one weed while wandering in the beds.
I hope they keep it down ‘til I retire,
And that this doesn’t warrant soothing meds.

Another thing to make me arch my brow
Is talk above a whisper near the stacks.
Some voices call to mind a horse or cow,
And libraries are places to relax.

It’s clear, I’m of those temperamental men
Who should never even visit the UN.

Abridge? Too Far Dept.

2005-04-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

It’s Free Press!

At the time of Georgian reign,
It would publish Thomas Paine,
Print a broadside, card or handbill
Handed with a quill, by candle.
Page a hornbook for young students,
Schooling homilies of prudence.
Line the text for each Poor Richard’s
After Ben decided which words—
       Insurrection coming ripe,
       Its essence set in type.
Revolutionary papers
Putting Parliament in vapors,
Touched the British King with dread.
Swing the bar! Squeeze the bed!
It’s free press!

2
Eighteen hundred saw advances,
Added readers, richer chances!
Bold newspapers for the many,
Some were had at two-a-penny.
Thought and theory still in fever,
Rising age of the achiever,
Came a torrent of editions
For all; farmers to physicians—
       Webster, Douglass, (Poe!)
       Harriet Beecher Stowe.
From St. Louis to Manhattan;
“Git that devil! ink the platen!
We’ve a deadline coming Frank!”
Haul the handle! Roll and clank!
It's free press!

3
Came the big Webb and the Rotos
First engravings then with photos,
(And that righteous holy see,
The Editorial 'We')
Where the jobsticks once were packing
Now a linotype is clacking,
Miles of paper whirl a sprocket
Near a pace too fast to clock it—
       Writers free to write,
       Any censor sees a fight!
Packed with copy more discursive,
From the safe to the subversive.
Lighting truth is yet the goal,
Hear it rumble! See it roll!
It's free press!

4
After Tesla sparked ambition
For a crackling new transmission
Came news radio debuting
(Thirty years would see us viewing!)
Heard the crack of Babe Ruth batting,
F.D.R. and fireside chatting.
From the brave war-correspondents
Honest story not despondence—
       Mr. Murrow held the air,
       Pyle and Shirer over there.
Growing twice a thousand stations,
In this freest of all nations
What you say is your affair.
Cue the Anchor! On the air!
It's free press!

5
How did freedom’s institution
Garner privileged absolution?
With the bar to publish falling;
Unrestricted pages sprawling,
Now we hear of regulation
On the spread of information!
Will we let F.E.C. leaven
As in 1637—
       Or license, as of yore;
       England 1644 ?
Seeing Blogger publication
Is a forward incarnation,
Raising questions of old orders;
Information without borders,
Let abridgment build a caste?
Free the linking! Keep it vast!
It’s free press!

Notes

In Passing

2005-04-08T00:05:00.000-07:00

And what is holy blessing from on high
But perseverance hallowed, set apart
To nourish here the hoping human heart.
Arise, such consecration passeth by.

And whither tread Saint Peter coming nigh
If not straight up to evil wholly weighed.
Because of him they know be not afraid.
Arise, as one who trod there passeth by.

And what is greatness in each human eye
Save the hero to be found in each.
His gift to all of being, was this to teach.
Arise, for such a hero passeth by.

...and those cognoscenti on the couch, too...

2005-04-05T22:22:00.000-07:00

Liberal Experts

The things most Liberals
Think they're experts on,
Are usually the things,
They've never done.
While their rhetoric's raucous,
Their record is poor
In suiting up for the game,
Or volunteering for war.
It's so easy to think
You're calling it right,
When you're not on the field,
Or involved in the fight;
To piously protest
The spilling of blood,
While not one drop of yours
Lies mixed with the mud.

Oh yes it's so easy
To be scolding and bold,
When you've not felt the fear
Makes the blood run ice cold.
Standing safe on the sidelines,
Do you never feel shame,
When you're bawling at us
That we're blowing the game?
Till you've carried the rifle,
Till you've handled the ball,
Just sit down and shut up
And let us make the call.
To you few Liberal warriors,
Who truly give us your best,
We wish your hearts and cojónes
Were shared by the rest.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Waitin' on the Levy Dept.

2005-04-01T10:46:00.000-08:00

David Wessel, writing in Thursday’s Wall Street Journal warns us on new aspects of the AMT. (paid subscription required)

Tax The Rich!

Tax the Rich! Tax the Rich!
The fat sheep flee the herder!
Call your Senator! —sire or bitch—
They’re getting away with murder!

Letter the Editor! show your spleen!
Let’s stop this vile unfairness!
Boost their percentage to heights unseen,
(Be damned to fiscal awareness!)

Tax the Rich! Tax the Rich!
Demand a committee hearing!
With your percentage a chronic itch,
The fat sheep need more shearing!

For 92 years it is safe and sound,
Well known to Pol and staffer;
That “revenue lost” is patronage found
(Be damned to Arthur Laffer)

Tax the Rich! in your envy lies
The key to this populist racket.
While productivity brings; “surprise!
You’ve moved to a higher bracket!”

Be a careful chump in demanding who
And where a levy exacts,
Soon little old you may be subject to
The Alternative Minimum Tax.

2005-03-17T11:43:00.000-08:00

Rachel Corrie's parents seek the one sure way to truth...a lawsuit.

Correlations

A baby is just such a special thing,
A joy to a parent's world.
Though a boy is nice, no being is quite
Like a bright-eyed pink little girl.

Nurtured and fussed over, taught to walk—
—The excitement at her first words!
You show her the beauties of life, out back
From the lawn, with its trees and birds.

But then as she grows come the complex things;
"Mommy why did Brianne hit Ruth?"
"Daddy, tell me again why the bullies win."
As before, you will need full Truth.

But what will you teach if you think no Truth,
If it’s relative who's to blame.
Does innate imperative keep your peace,
Is authority all the same.

What is the lesson, the way of life
When the quiet must bear offense,
And the innocent hear that the fault is shared—
The decision offends her sense.

Were your lessons of life from the trees and birds
That the natural ways are best,
(Where sentient beings only know through thought)
And it's feeling that must be stressed.

What has she learned when sincere dispute
Is mocked with partisan growl.
And what have you taught when the soldiers seen
Your community friends call foul.

Should it be a surprise she would gather cues
From your countrymen's triumphs spurned;
You have taught her thus, as you trust the shield
Of your country's flag she burned.

Is anyone shocked when she feels allowed
By the model of her elites,
To think her stage in a fierce war zone
As benign as Olympia's streets.

As you cast about for your tears' devise
Will a trial deflect your part?
Reflect what turned on lessons learned
Then grown in a powerful heart.

Regardless of how your suits play out
In your terribly altered world,
The jury of cause-and-effect will find
You have killed your own little girl.

2005-03-02T23:02:00.000-08:00

Mr. Churchill has been replaced. Jeez.

The Emmanent Professor

Well let it roll, your Rumpelstiltskin fit,
Brave opportunist of long forced-acclaim.
Your clear and blatant fear needs no admit;
The tempest shreds the cowl from your true name.

By quiet water flow, devoid of threat
You might seduce eyes blind by riches calm.
Flood surge from toppled rock rolls by us yet
Your arrogance wants safe and sound aplomb.

The little man's dear bargain you have made
To tout your mocking gold and angry grace
Says when this asks the apple eye be paid,
Your trued worth's measured in the marketplace.

Tremble, as your patrons feel the loss
In Halls where hard won gold is spun to dross.

Rumpelstiltskin – an educational allegory for our time.

2005-02-17T12:49:00.000-08:00

Gaining?

We've some complaint at our constraint
Re: Jordan, Churchill, Moyers;
For life urbane let carnage wane
And pay platoons of lawyers.

Are shoddy guys allowed such guise
To gnaw when fair's precluded;
The noble checked by ways correct,
Ill mannered, and deluded?

For days of old, when folks were bold,
Our present trouble beckons.
Insulting lads were slapped—the cads,
And waited on by Seconds.

2005-02-08T13:52:00.000-08:00

As far as I can determine, Leyla is still alive. As is Hajieh Esmailvand. Both are still under sentence of death by hanging.

What Now?

Can you spare some small attention?
Can you spare a little time,
From your hefty general catalogue
Of things you'll call a crime?
Oh, far be it from Leyla
To beseech or to demand,
From her tiny little corner
Of her small and brutal land.
But fairness for the blameless
Wants freer sister’s words
Heard West and East; by French, and Poles,
Iranians and Kurds.

Can you spare some small attention?
Can you spare a little time?
It ain't about the funding
Though a stand may help the climb.
Your hand spreads international,
To many lands the reach,
You raise your funds in currencies—
Is the payoff in the preach?
Your followers are legion;
NOW, it may be time to lead.
It would hardly dent your message
For her brutal case to plead.

Can you spare some small attention,
Can you spare a little time?
You’ve a ‘million’ women marching—
Is it mummery, a mime?
Does your cause stick at a border?
Do you pick and choose your thug?
Is it merely favored women?
Is your indignation smug?
Do state killers fear exposure,
Would Khameini order slack
Looking on a march of portraits—
A million Leylas looking back?

Can you spare some small attention?
Can you spare a little time,
From standing black and silent
All committed and sublime?
You’re clothed as for a funeral;
Appropriate, it seems,
For women of the Middle East,
For Leyla’s hopes and dreams.
If all you held her picture,
Held a straight accusing stare,
Would the threatened of humanity
At last be glad you’re there?

Can you spare some small attention?
Can you spare a little time,
For the turbaned men in Tehran,
Souls veneered in holy grime?
She will feel her final hundred,
She’ll be dragged up to the trap
Droning mullah saints intoning
She’ll hear last, before the snap!
With ‘free women’ your ideal
Keep your hush—and share this crime.
Can you spare some small attention?
Can you spare a little time?

2005-02-04T15:57:00.000-08:00

Sitting Bull

Their votes brought blue fingers renown
As Iraqis choose “clean up our town.”
The Left gives their fingers
To Freedom’s gun slingers
Ah, but wait! those are thumbs...and they’re brown!

2005-01-29T16:14:00.000-08:00

Russ Vaughn brings us a short anapestic on some recent history...

The Gang That Won’t Shoot Straight

It began when ol’ Dubya gave Al Gore the boot,
Those gun-hating Dems really started to shoot.
Their weapons of choice though leave much to desire
For they’re usually off-target and so often misfire.

In his blustering barrages, as everyone knows,
Al Gore is most likely to blow off his own nose.
And in hitting his targets, Teddy’s chances are slimmer
He’s no better at bombast than he was as a swimmer.

John Kerry took aim at Bush’s war in Iraq
But salvoes from Swiftees left him smoking black.
Daschle went to Dakota with all barrels loaded;
When the smoke finally cleared, he had clearly imploded.

They were gunning for George, but without enough practice
And ended up full of holes, their butts full of cactus.
That dimwitted cowboy turned out muy mal
Blew the Libs clean away at their O.K. Corral

Howard Dean, more than most, embodies the phrase,
“Shoot yourself in the foot,” yet may see better days.
If DNC chiefs decide the Party needs Deaning,
Shooting yourself in the foot will have Party-wide meaning.

Senator Boxer shot holes in her own reputation,
Taking potshots at Condi before the whole nation.
We can’t wait for the chance to see Nancy Pelosi,
Take aim at ol’ George: “BAM!” there goes her toesy.

We’ll not tolerate lying, fumes Senator Dayton,
A lightweight compared to the lady he’s baitin.’
But he shoots from the lip and quite clearly he misses,
While eighty-five colleagues hand out Condi kisses.

This “Gang that won’t shoot straight,” is really no puzzle,
Did you ever see a Lib knew his butt from his muzzle?
Have you fathomed the lesson that runs through this poem?
All guns should have locks if there are Libs in the home.

-Russ Vaughn

2005-01-22T14:25:00.000-08:00

How Many Liberals Does It Take To Win A War?

How many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Well how the hell can we tell? You won’t fight one anymore.
You say that you support the troops, but the truth’s plain as your face,
You’d pull us from the battle, march us home in full disgrace.
You’ve no stomach for the fighting, got no mettle, got no pluck;
If you ran this war on terror, we’d be a very well plucked duck.
The wolves of Jihad smell your dread, can smell your craven breath,
And emboldened by the fear they scent, lust for our bloody death.

“But wait,” you protest piously , “We are fighters for the poor.”
Might we suggest you start to fight, before wolves come through the door?
Do you think they’ll still believe in you, your poor, your gays, your blacks,
When the wolves run wild among them, sinking fangs into their backs?
Think then that they’ll be caring, when they’re counting out their dead,
We inflict pain on a captive wolf to learn what’s in his head?
Do you really think, you bleeding hearts, when they bleed in scarlet torrents,
They’ll care we cage the savage wolves, search lairs without signed warrants?

For years we watched your “feel good” courts defang our criminal laws,
Handcuff our police, give felons rights, espouse the criminals’ cause.
Felonious wolves were freed to prey, and we suffered their wild rages
Till “thinking” men took back the courts, put the wolf packs back in cages.
With your same old clueless “feelings” you now decry this war;
And with your same old fuzzy logic, common sense you still ignore.
We must look into “root causes” and we must try to “feel their pain;”
Pardon if our eyes start rolling, at your same old lame refrain.

It’s hard to fathom whence you come, perhaps some flawed eugenics,
That begets utopian pessimists, sires optimistic cynics.
Thanks be the power to rule the land remains beyond your means;
A regime of yours, would be like, no doubt, being ruled by pimpled teens.
Your quixotic quest for a world love nest, denies some truths quite real,
Like the need to have some “thinking” folks to preserve your right to “feel.”
Abhorring blood on your own hands, there’s a hard truth you’ve ignored,
Someone else must take your plowshare, and beat it back into a sword.

So how many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Or is there simply nothing you believe worth fighting for?
How is it that you’ve never learned, like most when they grow older,
That appeasing badness is a bad idea, only makes the bad guys bolder.
Has your fear of spilling human blood made you Jihad’s useful fools,
Ignoring that their wolf packs never fight within the rules?
By your demand we stay our hand, you weaken and you bind us;
Forcing us to fight off wolf attacks with that hand tied behind us.

So we bend some rules, in war you fools; so what? Show some respect,
When it’s your fuzzy-headed “feelings” thinking men fight to protect.

- Russ Vaughn

2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

2005-01-04T10:21:00.000-08:00

Russ Vaughn may be asking who it is that really needs help...

When the World Dials 911

Disaster strikes a world away
We get the call, what do we say?
We move at once, to ease their plight,
To aid them through their darkest night.
But come shrill cries from carping Press,
That’s not enough to fix this mess.
We know that, fools, but give us room,
To counter Mother Nature’s doom.

America gives to those in need,
With no regard to faith or creed.
We’re there for all when need is great
A helping hand to any state,
That’s fallen under Nature’s wrath
And needs a lift back to the path.
So what they may have mocked our ways?
We’ll turn our cheek ‘til better days.

But there are those who hate us so,
They’ll carp and snipe and hit us low,
Who’ll bend disaster to their needs,
And try to choke us on our deeds.
They’ll play their dirty liberal tricks,
For them it’s only politics.
In the face of massive human pain,
They only think of their own gain.

But the world knows sure whom it must call,
When disaster strikes, when nations fall.
America is the beaming light
That fades, dispels disaster’s night,
And standing firm provides relief
To salve the pain, allay the grief.
So to Hell with what our critics say,
America’s fine, still leads the way.

-Russ Vaughn

2004-12-29T14:47:00.000-08:00

I guess it’s the pure excitement that’s so infectious.

To the tune of Beautiful Dreamer. Loosely though, like the Australian original.

Hogonice Beer

Down in old Coral Gables, it’s a fun time for all
‘Round the Caja at ManCamp where the south bloggers sprawl.
But there’s no dish there waiting, whether bird, pig, or steer,
With the strength to compare with a Hogonice beer.

Now the Cubans are anxious for the Lawyer to come,
There are plates for the flan, Agria by the drum.
What's this then—brown bottles?! That's pretty damn queer,
Knowing nothing compares with a Hogonice beer.

Whether ales, stouts or lagers—be they amber or dark,
This is "paradise" brewing, he was heard to remark.
'For the tiny tight bubbles, I can charge more, it's clear,
When the bloggers hit Pay-Pal for their Hogonice beer.'

With a brew far far finer (which deserves a Kiddüsh)
Than that stuff from the pissoire at Anheuser-Busch,
He picks out his essays—eating well with no fear,
One handed! in the other, a Hogonice beer.

Down in old Coral Gables, it's a fun time for all
'Round the Caja at ManCamp where the south bloggers sprawl.
But there’s no dish there waiting, whether bird, pig, or steer,
With the strength to compare with a Hogonice beer.

2004-11-14T13:07:00.000-08:00

In my email Saturday, some thoughts on a recent victory...

The Last Battle of Vietnam

It never occurred to me, ever before,
That our Navy would win the Vietnam War.
When they took to their boats in this year of elections,
With the mission of making some major corrections
I shared their belief, John should not be elected,
And their view overdue, truth should be resurrected.
Yet I questioned the course they’d set themselves for,
Knowing how John was loved by the media whore.

Ignored and dismissed by the media queens
Being shrewd, savvy sailors they still found the means
To reach out to the people, to open their eyes
To a phony John Kerry and his war story lies.
With their very first ad, they torpedoed his boat,
A Cambodian Christmas would no longer float.
His heroics unraveled, his stories fell flat,
Especially that one ‘bout his magical hat.

John called on his lawyers and media whores,
And threatened the Swiftees with vile legal wars.
But these warriors kept charging back into the fire,
And made the folks wonder, “Is Kerry a Liar?”
Till the question of whether he’s telling the truth
Was still in their minds in the election day booth.
So the brave Swiftees gave us what we’d not had before,
They gave us our victory in the Vietnam War.

Those brave, stalwart sailors, falsely labeled as liars,
Stood firm and stood tall, kept directing their fires,
Steadfast, unrelenting, they served once again,
And defeated John Kerry, these honorable men.
All Vets can take pride, yes all, not just some,
That we won the last battle of Vietnam.
It took far too long to bring an end to our war
But we did, November Second, Two Thousand Four.

To our Brothers, forever on that long black Wall,
You’ve been vindicated now, one and all.

- Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Veteran's Day —

2004-11-11T06:23:00.000-08:00

2004-11-03T06:18:00.000-08:00

2004-10-26T16:36:00.000-07:00

2004-10-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

Crude and rude...

2004-09-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

Gunga Dan
(with apologies to Mr. Kipling)

You would gulp your gin and beer
Back before the Blogosphere,
When the majors had exclusive news and features;
Now you sip a scotch or lager
Reading fact-checks from a blogger,
An' no longer lick the boots o' network creatures.

Now on Nash-nal News at prime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-watchin' all the stories I could scan,
Of all them fibbin' crew
The weirdest man, we knew,
Was that bloomin' lyin' anchor, Gunga Dan.
He was "Dan! Dan! Dan!
You lyin' lump o' swagger, Gunga Dan!
Hi! slippery scoops, don't sweat 'em!
Stories, get 'em! Never vet 'em!
You squidgy-tongued old idol, Gunga Dan."

The suit 'n' tie 'e wore
Fit the CBS décor;
As a fashion plate was Rather some behind.
For a bit o' twisted gag
Once 'e swapped 'em for a rag
An' Afghani negligee; on goat 'e dined.
When the Rooshian troopers lay
In a valley far away,
To leave this 'eat, 'e loped and bloomin' crawled.
They shouted "TASS was by"
Saying Rather was the guy
Who stoned Afganis three and left 'em sprawled.
It was "Dan! Dan! Dan!
You idjit, what the mischief was your plan?
It was in the local weekly,
So you gotta take it meekly
See, the press don't 'ave to prove it, Gunga Dan!"

'E would pick 'n' choose each one
'Till The Wall Within was done,
An' 'e always seemed to know the use o' smear.
There 'e charged they burnt an' cut
An' 'e made our boys the butt,
As 'e pushed it there on TV, with a sneer.
With the morals of a hack
'E would press on this attack,
An' watch 'em writhe; the soldiers knew a liar,
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was dirtier inside
When condemnin' brave men wounded under fire!
It was "Dan! Dan! Dan!"
Accusations kickin' spots on boys in tan.
When the facts was rooted out
You could 'ear B. Burkett shout
"You’ve lied again, you bastard, Gunga Dan"

I shan't forgit the night,
Though 'e thought the risk was slight,
'E 'ad copies where a record should 'a' ran.
An' then raving as though cursed,
As 'is standing finally burst,
Was our good old bloomin' lyin' Gunga Dan.
So I clicked a bunch an' read
As the blogger's studies spread
On the superscripts, an' kerning in the scan.
Of the kool-aid that's been drunk
This was crawlin' and it stunk,
Was this newsy little riff from Gunga Dan.
It was "Dan! Dan! Dan!"
'Ere's a beggar they will laugh out to Japan;
No more 'apless will he 'ound,
As 'is guts are on the ground:
"For Gawd's sake git an inkling Gunga Dan."

'E carried us astray
An' 'e shows a great decay;
'Ere's a message come for all the Meedja clan.
For your standing to abide,
It is easy to decide;
It's 'oped you cease to think like Gunga Dan.
See, 'e's lookin' rather drawn
With 'is 'onor now in pawn,
And ol' CBS's sponsors on the pan.
'E's now roastin' on the coals;
Tell it straight, to save your souls!
Ah! I wouldn’t want the 'ell of Gunga Dan!
Yes, "Dan! Dan! Dan!
You lazy sack o' shoddy Gunga Dan!
Though it's CBS that made you,
It was you, yourself, who flayed you,
You're no better than a liar, Gunga Dan!"

Thanks to QandO for the link to the Anne Morse article.

2004-09-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

I knew they were out there! In my email the evening of September 6th I received 3 poems written…and signed by:

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Mr. Vaughn expresses his take on John Kerry’s shenanigans with wit, conviction, and a wonderful command of rhyme and scan. They are proudly presented here, as he wrote them. The third one, Veteran’s Day is especially good and, I believe, an original.

The Night Before Christmas - Cambodian Version
(after Major Henry Livingston Jr.)

'Twas the night before Christmas and we were afloat
Somewhere in Cambodia in our little boat.
While the river was lightened by rockets red glare
No one but the President knew we were there.

The crew was all nestled deep down in their bunks,
While the Spook and I watched the sampans and junks.
Our mission was secret, so secret in fact,
No one else would remember it when we got back.

When out on the water there arose such a clatter
I leaped down from the bridge to see what was the matter.
The incoming friendly was starting to flash
And I knew that the ARVN’s were having a bash.

The snap of friendly fire on the warm tropic air
Convinced me for sure no one knew we were there,
On a clandestine mission so secret it’s true
That I’m still convinced only Tricky Dick knew.

While I huddled for safety in the tub on the bow,
I thought of a title, "Apocalypse Now."
To give to the films I was I making each day
To show all the voters when I made my big play.

As I sat there sweating in my lucky flight jacket,
Spook said, "Merry Christmas!" and tossed me a packet.
And what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a new lucky cap, which I still have right here.

I keep it tucked here, in this leather brief case,
Just sharing with the press its secretive place
As I regale them again with my senate refrain,
That Christmas in Cambodia is seared into my brain.

Don’t bother to quibble with history my friend,
By pointing out Johnson was President then.
Don’t listen to Swiftees who try to explain,
For I tell you that night is seared into my brain.

Down Hibbard, down Lonsdale, and you too O'Neill,
So you don’t remember? Well it's something I feel.
I don't need all you Swiftvets to support my campaign,
Cause Christmas in Cambodia is seared into my brain,

Into my brain, into my brain, into my brain...

Johnny
(With apologies to Mr. Kipling and the British Army)

Johnny went public with 'is boasts, an' 'ero without fear,
'Til sudden like the Swifties say, "We got a turncoat 'ere."
The Libs they just ignored ‘em, sayin' "Ah, it’s all a lie!"
Then Johnny's outted by their ads an' to myself says I:

Oh it’s Johnny this an’ Johnny that, 'e's the 'ero of the day.
But it’s wait now, Mr. Kerry, what’s that record really say?
The horns are loudly blowin' boys as our band begins to play,
An' it's goodbye, Mr. Kerry, as they blow your arse away.

Johnny goes to Cincinnati sober as a man can be,
An' they give ol' George a "Bravo Lad!" but John no sympathy.
They give 'im plain their message, sittin’ silent in the 'alls,
That when it comes to fightin' men, they know oo's got the balls.

For it’s Johnny this an' Johnny that, but wait, he might 'a lied
From the platform of his campaign train an' on the Boston tide.
His ship is on the tide, my boys, his ship is on the tide,
An' it's plain as day she’s sinkin' boys, because the turncoat lied.

Yes Johnny mocked our uniforms that guard you while you sleep.
He cheapened all our medals throwing his upon that heap;
An' rustlin’ up his phony troops, he led them for a bit,
Until his aspirations and theirs no longer fit.

Now it's Johnny this an' Johnny that, an' Johnny how's yer soul,
In that brave front rank of 'eroes as our drums begin their roll?
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
An' they’ll keep right on a rollin' boys, 'til we chuck 'im in the hole.

We make no claim as 'eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But 'onorable men an' warriors fightin’ once agin for you.
An' if your 'ero's record, our charges soundly taint,
That's what we're tryin' to tell you blokes, your 'ero ain't no saint.

For it’s Johnny this an' Johnny that, an' "Check him out, the Loot!"
Was 'e the "Savior of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot?
Now it's Johnny’s turn to prove us wrong, an' make us all out liars,
By signin' that one eighty form an' puttin out the fires.

Oh it’s Johnny this an' Johnny that, 'e's the 'ero of the day,
But it's hold on, Mr. Kerry, what's that record really say?
The horns are loudly blowin' boys, as our band begins to play,
"Cheerio, Old Man," to Johnny and blows his arse away.

VETERANS' DAY

How liberals do defy the mind
For nothing in theirs' can we find,
That willingly will look with reason
At how their man committed treason,
Skulked off to Paris this effete
To grovel at the Madame's feet,
Betraying his sworn officer’s oath
To become the turncoat we so loathe.

Our law is clear you shall not treat
With America's foes nor their cadres meet;
Give aid nor comfort to enemy forces
Nor espouse a view from hostile sources.
Without a mandate from the state
Wherefrom your right to negotiate?
Was treason, John, and is treason still
To this very day your unpaid bill.

Don’t try to hide behind your youth.
You knew the law you knew the truth.
You knew your faux negotiation
Would further tear our war-torn nation
And all for what, John, your career
So you can shameless brazen here,
And claim now that you’re fit to lead
The very nation you made bleed?

And yet before us there you stand
With medals blazing you demand
Such treachery we must ignore
Your treason that lost us our war.
But hold on, John, we veterans say,
You had your turn, now comes our day.
You thought we slept, forgot your crime?
Oh no, John boy, it’s come our time.

Some say let you apologize
But that won’t do it in our eyes.
A man astride of each position
Could we believe your true contrition?
The vindication we’ll accept
In settling up this long-held debt,
Is each of us will do his best
To deny you, John, your lifelong quest.

Listen carefully John to what we say, November 2nd is Veterans' Day.

Written by Russ Vaughn

2004-08-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

It took a little longer than four months to arrive at Bannockburn. Took better men too.

With apologies to Robert Burns...

Scott's Wae Used

Scott's wae used whe' Kerry bled,
Scott's wham moppin counters spread
Wi' coffee stain 'n' beef blood red,
Or welcomed wi' a brie.

Endless day and endless hour;
We hear past years o' battle sour;
From dourest shroud 'neath Edward's power—
Boston knavery.

Wha wad sich a way behave?
Wha wad rant a coward's rave!
Wha elect a traitor knave?
Hear him cop a plea!

Wha for country's land and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
Surely it ain't he.

Opposition's nuanced brains;
By concessions lose our gains!
Ne'er forestall our Spanish trains,
Wait we must, and see!

Lay'd one twenty 'near the foe,
Lay'd the broken brothers low!
Lept the boat by starb'd bow,
Left 'is crew, tae flee.

2004-07-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

Leg Down

Ah! the national stage amusing;
Actors at hilarious play.
B'dad! their dealings—from bemusing
Through to black, but mostly gray!
A case! that last administration;
Three personae worth a glance,
(Though they were no aberration)
All involving errant pants.

Chairing health committees furtive,
Dressed and coiffured to the nines;
Chuckles came at trails contourtive
Oh! those vicious panty lines!
High placed ladies who would order
Each behavior for our health,
Ought abjure the bum-with-border
Rather, plump for bloomer'd stealth.

Hubby, sadly, fared not better;
Here be trews' satyric ilk.
Penchant there to loose their fetter,
Beet root pushing at the silk!
Well filled suits look presidential
Coats and pants the leader shows.
In the oval residential
Problem was, to keep them closed.

Back is Berger, John advising;
Comes the camera! Suits to choose!
And, a paper trail is rising
Aaack! he must fill more than shoes!
Stops to eye the Zegna trouser;
"Silk-and-wool hangs, like a dream!
Stylish cut, as you'll allow, sir
Either leg will hold a ream."

Take a memo to the archive!
Bring back fifty, sixty more!
Formulate your best bizarre jive;
Draped but lumpy—out the door!
Next trip, sport the Turkish shalvar;
Roomy! baggy! tightly sashed.
Whisk right by the short 'n' tall bar,
Half the warehouse neatly cached.

Files in shirts and socks and trousers
Tell me sir, was there a hat?
Surely George needs better mousers,
'Strewth! the bag was in the cat!
It was all so "inadvertent"
"Feeble," "foolish," great "mistake."
Would an innocence so blurtant
Deign to dance the Kerry shake?

Ah! the national stage amusing
Drives the news and varied rants.
Who then parses proofs confusing?
Who then after scandal pants?

2004-06-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

Ewywadlam (Welsh air)

Are you loving your carbs,
   Fat in cooking you’re fond?
Do you nibble or wolf—
   Gastronome or gourmand?
Do you crave real food
   From true kettle and pan?
Cook from Eat What You Want,
   And Die Like A Man.

For the lightest in biscuits,
   Killer chicken fried steak;
Rich blissful potatoes;
   Oy! chocolate cheesecake!
Enjoy with his coffee
   Triple cocoanut flan;
All from Eat What You Want,
   And Die Like A Man.

Here are thirty good recipes
   Each with a tale.
All humorous, witty
   And droll without fail.
Don’t fret at your waistline,
   Count pounds with dismay
The author’s so funny,
   You'll laugh ‘em away.

If you crave real food
   And would laugh while you can,
Read it! Eat What You Want,
   And Die Like A Man.

2004-06-09T23:08:00.001-07:00

Dutch

A shadow surely crossed the sun
The day we lost Tom Jefferson
As I am shadowed here today
And heedless that the tears betray.

The shining city grown from then
Has ever summoned giant men
Who call us on to burnished quest
The heirs of sheltering liberty blessed.

With clear eyed soul and knowing grin
He called to all our best within
Look up he urged and rise, advance
With Dutch you knew you had the chance.

True shining city vast and wide
Where only can vast men abide
And damn, the twisting pain and break
To see them never, save their wake.

Sharp poignance habits this deprive
Moved from a tragic death alive
But high his flag flies now at half—
He left it on a taller staff.

2004-05-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

Elements Of Chance

You there! under shaded haven true
In ease, who fill your days near shelter's bole.
How ill is known...of leaves o’er arching you,
Broad trunk and branch conveyed of Monticello soul.

...Of at your feet strewn green, and brown, and gray
Imparting rustle massed of plaintive cries;
Grand knotted roots drink deep in streaming clay,
From such a flood at plaint, wellsprings there in reprise.

They've taken fire in half a million fights
At other houses, quarters—park and square.
Great stretches done to black—oppression’s blight
Ran dark, diseased with ruin over there.

On other houses, quarters—park and square,
And others living fearful, pinched and hard—
Reflect and ponder; ruin ever there—
And why it is so quiet in your yard.

Such ones! who plunge their hands in living seethe
Such cast, such die—lest all should come to harm.
Distinct it is when any cease to breathe;
He held him as his blood dripped off his arm.

Forgone the time and forfeited the sweet;
Their greatest sacrifice, as some would say.
Good words alleged by unattached elite
Who speak of sacrifice in common way.

But such! they measure not as you or I;
Uneasy they, to dwell at tyrant’s let.
The things we may allow can never vie
For those who live no value under threat.

And burnt off from their rule our banal score;
Accorded minds were cast, then forged anew.
There matters much, and little, when at war—
Not high, not low, not whence, but what they do.

Then how are we to take the measure say,
When Tillman, Chance, or Dunham—others fall.
Why, see them as they are! they willing weigh
Their measure, simply said, at all for all.

Outside them, never shortage drought or dearth
Of disaffected, boasting pained complaint.
Yea, betters show us duty on this earth,
And some are something very near a saint.

Though Heroes live and die to scattered care,
There’s honor understanding honor’s guard.
Reflect and ponder; who is willing there
And why, it is so quiet in your yard.

This began from reading of the homecoming of Marine Lance Corporal Chance Phelps, Taking Chance Home

Ranger Pat Tillman’s story is better known. Google him, if you don’t.

Marine Corporal Jason Dunham you may read about here. Or here, if you're a subscriber.

2004-05-27T11:12:00.000-07:00

2004-05-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

Something at Belmont to think about.

Regression Analysis

This our new progressive age
   Sees fifty war tools to a page.
Past bow and arrow, knife and spear
   Draws further ordnance most severe;
The while, may citizen pale in pall,
   Our forces must needs face them all.
Beyond the chattering deadly cough
   Of enemy held Kalashnikov,
In market square or train or bus,
   Which movers darkly target us?
Which of them sporting too-fat chests,
   With Semtex swelling in their vests?
Or driving out among the palms
   Will arms fly out at roaded bombs.
A still-life at the berm we see—
   Raghead crouched with RPG.
And missing yet but placed somewhere
   In bunker, Syria, here or there
Where used and proved by graves in mass;
   Disquiet mulls on poison gas.
They’ve sarin, scuds, and bio-bugs;
   Such bon-bons in the hands of thugs,
The soldier finds the strength within
   To daily face them down, and win.
Ah, but there's a weapon still
   To be considered on this bill.

Sun-Tzu told it—hold attack
   And use the coward at their back.
To undercut command support,
   Confuse the purpose, firmness thwart
And sap the will, shrink back the bold,
   As naked scrota iced with cold.
Until your troops are there alone
   And every leader cries atone.
Perverted aim is aim to break;
   Put soldier's and your life at stake.
What frays our steel, seeks out its stress
   And widens every crack?—our Press.

2004-04-30T23:41:00.000-07:00

[This is what can come of reading Susanna]

If you're going to do song parody, why stop at just one tune when whole musicals present themselves? Well, we try to please. A half dozen parodies will be arriving here over the next few days. Hopefully, they will give you some joy. Some find them more fun if they're really sung. Daddy-o, like...hear the man’s music!

...So now...

Throw down your shovels!
Sit on your asses!
Light up a Marsh-Wheeling...and join those loveable gangs; the Flacks and the Blogs in selections from...

(a) PRESS' SNIDE STORY
(with deep apologies to Stephen Sondheim and Leonard Bernstein)

THE FLACK SONG
SHA'RIA
AMER-I-CA
TOO RIGHT!
(Secretary) GENERAL KOFI
I FEEL PITY Update!

THE FLACK SONG

When you're a Flack you're a Flack all the way
From your first weekly rag
To by-lines and big pay!
Yeah!
When you're a Flack let them say what they want
You can tear ‘em all down
In a fifty point font!

You live on the ‘phone
With balance disconnected.
Yeah!
You hack for some drone
Your party wants elected.
Yeah! Yeah!
Write what’s expected.

Then you are marked with a Capital ‘F’
Which you'll never transcend, being clueless and deaf.
And write small!
We always write small!
We’re Flacks!
Not the straightest!

When you're a Flack you lap up the renown-
A brassy old ‘kid’ with an arrogant frown!
Yeah!
When you're a Flack you must think you’re the thing;
(Little man, you're an imp with delusions of king!)

The Flack never fears
The keyboard is a-clickin'
Yeah!
At DNC rears
The worst are busy lickin’
Yeah! Yeah!
And readers sicken.

Here come the Flacks with a story to tell;
Someone frames it to fit,
Someone bends it to sell.
Yeah!
Here come the Flacks, little world deep inside
Which is kept under wraps,
An agenda to hide!

We’re pushin’ a line,
We keep our motives hidden!
Yeah!
We're hangin' a sign
Says honesty forbidden!
Yeah! Yeah!
And we ain't kiddin'

Here come the Flacks!
Yeah!

...wherein the scales may fall from even a reporter’s eyes...

SHA’RIA...

The most puzzling sound I ever heard:
...Sha’ria. Sha’ria. Sha’ria. Sha’ria...
All of the fatwas of their world in a single word;
…Sha’ria. Sha’ria. Sha’ria. Sha’ria…

Sha’ria!
I’ve just done a piece on Sha’ria,
And suddenly I know,
Why soldiers have to go
To war.

Sha’ria!
Just see what I wrote on Sha’ria.
You’ll read it and agree,
We missed things, you and me,
Before.

Sha’ria…

Say it soft, and hear mullahs praying.
Say it loud and hear stoning and slaying.

Sha’ria.
I never considered Sha’ria…
The most frightening sound I ever heard:

Sha’ria!
Too many are blind to Sha’ria.
They never see the dead,
The countries running red,
With gore.

Sha’ria!
And N.O.W., still, is hushed on Sha’ria.
Maimed women they don’t see,
They love diversity
Much more.

Sha’ria!

Say it soft, and hear mullahs praying.
Hear it loud; we’re the target, they’re saying.

Sha’ria.
I’ll never stop hating Sha’ria.
The most frightening sound I ever heard:
Sha’ria.

In the lobby of the Press Club, some Blogs on the make run into some Flacks…

AMER-I-CA

(spoken)
Old Media!
Oh, my heart condition!
When will you be showing…
A little contrition!

(spoken)
Old Media: “Political Correctness...a lovely concept...oasis of common sense
Always our feelings connecting...
Always ‘bad’ history correcting...”

(spoken)
New Media: (mockingly) “Political Correctness...an ugly concept...oasis of nonsense
Always a bias showing...
Always the pundits crowing...and their tantrums throwing,
And the newsies prying...
And reporters lying.
We’d change the Press from Manhattan - Boot up your Mac and type that in!”

(music) Dadada Dadada Da-Da-Da….

(sings)
ALL:
We have free press in AMER-I-CA,
Sometimes a mess in AMER-I-CA,
Bias excess in AMER-I-CA,
Like an abscess in AMER-I-CA!

(music) Dadada Dadada DA-Da....

OM: "Media mostly is our wing"
NM: "Think of the trouble that that brings!"

ALL: Hooray! Hooray! (whistles, shouts)

OM: "Stories are best with correct views."
NM: "All that you lack is the whole news!"

ALL:
Newspapers cheap in AMER-I-CA,
Piling ‘em deep in AMER-I-CA,
Columnists weep in AMER-I-CA,
Writing don't keep in AMER-I-CA!

OM: "We print what’s fit off the news wire."
NM: "We know reporters you should fire!"

ALL: Papah! Getcha Papah! (arm waving, shouts)!

OM: "Batting them out by the dead-line."
NM: "Under a misleading head-line!"

ALL:
TV is dogging AMER-I-CA,
Talk shows are hogging AMER-I-CA,
Anchors are flogging AMER-I-CA,
Smartasses clogging AMER-I-CA!

OM: "TV is first on the sto-ry."
NM: "Anything leads if it’s go-ry!"

ALL: Eeeeewwwww….

OM: "We show big newsmakers each day."
NM: "You filter everything they say!"

ALL:
Radio free in AMER-I-CA,
More, for a fee in AMER-I-CA,
NPR flee in AMER-I-CA,
No "BBC" in AMER-I-CA!

OM: "Talk radio is a bad choice."
NM: "What about 'masses' and their voice?"

ALL: Hahaha Hahaha ha-HA! (laughter, catcalls)

OM: "We think the lineup is un-fair."
NM: "People tune out when you're on air!"

ALL:
Internet hum in AMER-I-CA,
Columnists glum in AMER-I-CA,
Fact-checking some in AMER-I-CA,
Global views come to AMER-I-CA!

OM: "Amateur writers are such pains."
NM: "Anyone's able to use brains!"

ALL: Yay! Yeeee-hawww! (cheers, dancing)

OM: "Pro writers better in our view."
NM: "Bloggers are waiting to hose you!"

ALL:
There's a good life in AMER-I-CA,
Opinion rife in AMER-I-CA,
Said with less strife in AMER-I-CA,
Better your life with
AMER-I-CA !

In journalism school, they’re merrily singing…

Too Right

Too Right, too Right
It's all moved far too Right!
Our social conscious world went away.
Too Right, too Right
The country's far too Right,
Who they tax, how they spend, what we pay.

Today…all day they hurt my feelings
Their massive social spending
Is plainly way too tight.
Now here we are,
And what was headed Left, is thus far…
Too Right!

Too Right, too Right
The world is full of fight,
With bombs and hate all over the place.
Too Right, too Right
Our world is wild with fright.
Mullahs mad...why are they...in our face?

Today…it’s our fault they attacked us;
With phony war on terror,
George Bush makes us feel fright!
Now, here we are
With Ridge, our freaking big Homeland Czar,
Too Right!

Meanwhile, another story. The real rumble is on over at the U.N……

(Secretary) GEN-ER-AL KOFI

BUSH: (sings)
Dear….. Secretary Kofi
You gotta understand,
That freedom is a trophy
For which we take a stand.
The UN’s full of cowards!
The Council’s full of rats!
All - those – “Leaders” talking through their hats!

BUSH AND CABINET: GEE!
‘General’ Kofi, we're very upset.
You merely wanna chat when there’s a credible threat.
You think it’s just culture;
We’ve ‘misunderstood’
We’re not “consulting like we should.”
BUSH: Like we should?
CABINET: Like we should? Like we should?
Like we really should?
We don’t ask…your blessing like we should?

RUMSFELD: (spoken) That's a DAMN good story!
BUSH: (spoken) Lemme tell it to the world!
POWELL: (spoken) Just tell it to Jacques...

BUSH: (sings)
Dear kindly Jacques Chirac we
Think AQ’s playing rough.
And then that damned Iraqi
Saddam kept talking tough.
You told Annan “don’t help us”
We’re feeling sorta had.
Leapin' lizards! That's why we’re so mad!

JACQUES: OUI!
‘General’ Kofi, you're really a dunce
This Bush guy is simplisme as I’ve said more than once.
Think! Under the table, we’ve all gotten paid!
War has exposed the Oil Charade!
BUSH: Oil charade!
CABINET: Oil charade! Oil charade!
Bared the whole charade!
Like, the war, has bared the whole charade!

JACQUES: (spoken) In our collective opinion, Bush is simplisme
on account he ain’t a real European.
BUSH: (spoken) Hey, I'm behaved on account I’m derived!
JACQUES: (spoken) So let him talk to the Germans…

BUSH: (sings)
Dear Deutch, we fought your Kaiser,
We made you Hitler-free.
My father found you wiser,
But now you’re eating brie.
Our troops have saved your country
From Soviet distress.
Goodness, Gerhard; now look—it’s a mess!

SCHRÖEDER: JA!
‘General’ Kofi, you're really a schwein
You failed to get him toeing the transnational line.
The UN has played Bush some terrible tricks;
They’ve saddled him with old Hans Blix!
BUSH: Old Hans Blix!
CABINET: Old Hans Blix, old Hans Blix
With old Blix Blix Blix
Like we’ve heard…enough from old Hans Blix!

BLIX: (spoken) In my opinion, Bush don't need to talk to Germans at all.
They got no WMDs. WMDs are purely imaginary!
BUSH: (spoken) Hey, we got imaginary corpses!
BLIX: (spoken) So send him to Human Rights Watch…

BUSH: (sings)
Dear kindly interferer
You sit there on your ass,
While monsters far and nearer
Are murdering in mass.
You’re blind and self-important,
It’s obvious you’re botched;
Glory-osky! The genocides you’ve watched!

HRW: EEK!
‘General’ Kofi, you've done it again.
We haven’t been exposed this way since we don’t know when.
He ain't so simplisme, we’ve misunderstood!
Deep down inside him, he's dam’ good!
BUSH: I’m dam’ good!
CABINET: He’s dam’ good! He’s dam’ good!
He is real damned good,
Unlike them, George Bush is fooking good!

JACQUES: Our trouble is he's willful.
SCHRÖEDER: Our trouble is he fights!
BLIX: Our trouble is he's skillful.
SCHRÖEDER: Our trouble is he’s right!
JACQUES: Our trouble is his nature!
BLIX: Our trouble is his “tone!”

BUSH AND CABINET: Kofi, we face troubles on our own!
See, ‘General’ Kofi
We're NOT on our knees,
'Cause no one wants attacks that come from moves to appease.
Gee ‘General’ Kofi
What are we to do?
Hey ‘General’ Kofi
F*ck You!

They’re c o o o o m m ing…

I Feel Pity

I feel pity
Oh, much pity,
I feel pity for cities in France.
Europe’s cities,
Menaced by Jihadi army ants.

I see arming,
Oh, much arming-
It’s alarming, the harming we’ll see.
Won’t be pretty—
Coming continental killing spree.

See the chilling group in Madrassa there:
Who can this frightening group be?
Such a scary plan,
Such a chilling text,
Such a bloody ban.
Are we to be next?

Sheiks come gunning,
Backpacks bursting,
EU’s led by the worst sycophants.
Europe running;
Menaced by Jihadi army ants.

2004-04-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

The Bastard of Baghdad, Saddam Hussein was born April 28 1937. Last year we didn't know if he was alive or dead, and sending a card was such a problem...

Damn Sad, Saddam (posted in some site's (?) comments 4/28/03)

It's April twenty-eighth today, you could be sixty-six.
So many tried to keep you on; the French and bloodhound Blix.
But you're now past retirement age—high time to sing and laugh.
Unless of course you're strewn about, or gone with al Shahaf.

So here's a birthday greeting; but it's sad, to say the least,
That no one wants to celebrate two numbers of the beast.
The crowds are gone, there's no parade, no hat to show you fatuous;
Your former slaves are thrilled that your hometown is now un-statueous.

This year, we do know.

Damn! Sad Saddam

Comes now the twenty-eighth again—you're here! You're sixty-seven!
Why, we thought bunker-busters had sent you to raisin heaven!
Jazeera said you'd not give up; you'd lead, and go down fighting,
But you're the lad who called 'jihad' while in your tank, jihiding.

George Bush has sent you his regards (though that was weeks ago)
And former slaves send greetings, from themselves, and those below.
They're gifting you a forum where you'll stand and take the rap;
They want to put you 'in the loop'—for you, 't will be a snap.

2004-04-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

They're at it again!

Via Vodkapundit from Matt Welch

Draft Copy

This note's for Charlie Hagel
And Charlie Rangel too.
We hear you want the draft again;
Your word is, ‘we're too few.’

And ignorance is screaming;
Send politician's sons
And daughters to the battle
There, to face opposing guns.

Enlistment ain't a punishment,
Our units ain't a cell.
We want no men or women here
Who'll turn their face from hell.

We understand and welcome
The sacred charge we hold.
We signed on for this country; whether
Peace or war unfold.

We've been called 'bands of brothers'
We're here to say that's true.
We all train long and hard, and trust
All crave to see it through.

Who's at our side is vital,
Likewise who minds our back.
Our lives are too important
For this motivation's lack.

Imagine for a moment, sirs,
Your re-election's tight.
Would you draft persons off the street
To win your little fight?

So Charlies; not to worry,
'Cause the mission's well in hand.
We'll thank you to reflect on this.
Signed,
- In Harm's Way We Stand

2004-04-08T22:37:00.000-07:00

(with a measured cadence, not too fast)

( a ) Prayer of the Press

Let us for ‘Vietnam’ thankful be.
In stories and views we can make, with glee,
Points gloomy, distrustful—and react
As though we were never, in fact, attacked.

Let us for ‘Quagmire’ thankful be.
We can all, without any thought, agree,
Though a vital job be a long hard pull;
Though it show result, it’s impossible.

Let us for ‘Pigeonhole’ thankful be.
Though a child see hazard from ‘A’ and ‘B’
We can grumble and whine; “you’re neglecting A”
Or deny B’s relevance—either way.

Let us for ‘Body Count’ thankful be.
In sound-bite style to measure degree
Of endeavor we feel is wasted force.
We deny this comforts the foe. Of course.

For ‘Diversity’ let us thankful be.
Mal-equivalence coin which passes free;
A Leader condemned if he dare to fight.
A despot now counseling human right.

Let us for ‘Headline’ thankful be.
Above the fold, breathless on TV;
Showing big and black, with a veil of doom
And ads for products you might consume.

And let us for ‘Soldiers’ thankful be.
We quote or ignore them as we see
Each chance to add to a mood of fear.
(Forgetting who warrants our freedom here)

2004-03-30T09:44:00.000-08:00

Epigram

Saddam was led away alive
Disheveled, foul, and hairy.
Were he still groomed, in palace five,
He'd host State Thugs For Kerry.

2004-03-16T20:48:00.000-08:00

Dangerous Games

On that morning of elation
When you're leaving on vacation
Do you cultivate temptation
In the robbers on the block?
Does your mail and yard and lighting
Show a target most inviting,
So that on return you're fighting
For your stuff—all now in hock?

Are you short of breath and coughing,
Emphysema in the offing?
Are you knowledgeably scoffing
At a respiratory threat?
Is it clear from fluoroscoping
There is reason to be hoping,
But each morning finds you groping
For that early cigarette?

Do you drive your truck or auto
With imprudence as your motto?
Do you act as though it's lotto;
Is your number fate alone?
Does that right-lane guy look neat-o?
Does she tickle your libido?
While you chomp at a burrito,
In your other hand, the phone.

By a same—more solemn—token
When the terrorists have spoken
Are you timorous and broken,
Knuckling under to a goon?
Be not one who bows—or favors
Courting dangerous behaviors,
For they have in mind a grave, yours!
Thinking when—not if—and soon.

2004-03-04T23:24:00.001-08:00

At first, I thought this post by The Transplanted Texan just had to be from California. But no. It’s from.... Canada.

Via Instapundit

Pass The Word

A poet's life is fraught with risks
Allayed by folks from OSHA,
But spare me writing—lengthy Fisks
—Or verse in Nova Scotia.

A crazy place, by all accounts
No spot for nervous breakdowns;
Where ‘crats use brains in small amounts
To run eccentric shakedowns.

Here’s Kooky Kisely’s PCd grip
On unsuspecting writers;
There’s health (he says) in censorship
Against such mental blighters.

Yea, bards there cannot choose for rhyme
From lists of banned expression,
Like madman, nutcase (there’s a crime)
No fruitcakes? pure repression!

Now moron’s out and so is dolt
Likewise halfwit and spoony.
One 'feebleminded' makes them bolt,
No dopey, dunce, or loony.

I’m missing idiot, dumb, and daft
Screw-loose and funny farmers.
Their use will soon be daily graphed
By Health Department charmers.

The list goes on for half a day
Of psych terms more informal.
It’s wrong to term C-H-M-A
As just a tad subnormal?

Halfwits ! nitwits ! imbeciles !
Is Angus chowderheaded?
No, addlepated (hear the squeals!)
His mind too loosely threaded.

And Nova folk are paid to snitch
Such words in prose or Haiku.
Those gossips get—and here’s the bitch
—Lots more per word than I do !

2004-02-25T10:22:00.000-08:00

Last week...In a Theocracy not so far away...

2004-02-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

With minor tuning, a reprise from a year past...

Romantic Interlude

In Shakespeare's time they sung of love the best,
Of kiss me sweet and twenty's ardor there.
Ben Jonson, Michael Drayton and the rest,
Outpour'd their youthful hearts for she was faire.
E'en later, in her aspect and her eyes
Did Byron show us beauty in the night.
Their countless ways to praise desiring sighs
Draw near, near as such sighing gain requite.
For you I summon magic from lang past
To add to aspect here, most dear as well;
The carriage of your honor standing fast,
Your intellect and sense clear as the bell.
Evoking now a love I’m proud is mine
I write these words to my own Valentine.

2004-01-27T22:34:00.000-08:00

Last Fall, Alaa of The Mesopotamian gifted us with this vivid imagery and sentiment. I haven't seen it mentioned lately, and that's too bad.

Of Masses

Out, under ill known scrapes of sand and waste,
Beyond parched wâdis heated winds have chased.
Where the very light bears grit more felt than seen,
And every line of sight sees nothing green.
There sited underneath the sand and stones,
There, lie the bones.

As mark on mark beat certain pace to mold
A canvas or the marble worked of old,
Each bone has bled its mark upon this land,
Each owner of them marking the heart of man.
A gorgèd evil work beneath the stones,
This freight of bones.

They often knelt together, some in hand,
At edge their looming sepulcher in sand;
Came thumps and weeping terror to each line,
And next and next ran butchery malign,
Staccato shots wrung blood and wretched moans
Among the stones.

It's now—behind he stands to make the rend,
In front wide eyed enormity of end,
Denying and despairing—frantic seek
My Child—my Love—my God—will no one speak!
From mouths where choking sand rolls over bones,
Fade smothered groans.

In loved or known or kin or passers-by,
At every mark are fewer who defy;
Below the masquerade is rage inflamed to grow,
Submission taut and waiting, as a bow.
And number these as stretch the desert stones,
These livid stones.

This calcined call rolls wave to every ear
For all of them and some of us to hear,
And heed a plea to go in turn to rend,
To speak then for the slaughtered, though eloquent their end,
And lay some honored dead for sake of bones.
To join the bones.

In this they see heroic living proved;
What moved a will be naught by that it moved.
An honest cry from souls no longer mute,
Devout to restive bones the living lift salute
To honor he, Avenger of the Bones.
In quiet tones.

2004-01-23T10:28:00.000-08:00

Ha! 37% of a pretty big sample of Brits want nothing more than to defend themselves. Will it happen?

Turnabout

So was 4's Today rolled? A plurality polled
“Give us Martin” but Commons just never relents.
Should poor British yeomen declare to these foemen
Beginning; “When, in the course of Human events…”?

Via The Prof

2004-01-14T10:35:00.000-08:00

Did Wretchard say doggerel??

Crouching Iamb - Hidden Writer

While reading in the ‘sphere one night
I saw a link that promised light,
And reaching down to hit the key
I found, to joy, it was to be.
A writer there with good restraint;
A screaming maniac he ain’t,
With decent points and better prose,
He’s blogrolled, ‘cause he’s on his toes.

But, though he’s clear in what he means,
Reflective (and he never preens),
We peer in vain through mystery’s haze
To know just who to pan or praise.
Who is this “Wretchard? what’s the deal,
Will he to we one day reveal
A bio written, fair or draft,
Of just who is behind this craft?
Though rhymes are good and rhythm pat,
We still don’t really know this cat.

Yet I for one will not despair;
We know the writer by the ware.
And so “who Wretchard is” will gel,
Past tales of cat and doggerel.

2004-01-11T09:38:00.000-08:00

Back in July, the world was treated to this study from Berkeley California “explaining” conservative simplisme. Now, we have Neal Starkman’s supportive contribution to a more perfect polity—dealt with at Tim Blair’s, and by Chris Muir via Bill Quick.

Time for a song.

It's 199 years past the setting of Master and Commander and a new battle is on. For the Democrats, a long stern chase in heavy seas.

Needed: a salty work chantey to spur their efforts—heaving at the ropes to hoist the mains’l yard on the good ship Dean-0-four. As it happens, I have a modest entry here, to make anyone heave. There’s even a tune* to get into the rhythm of the thing. You can hear in your mind the First Mate’s burly baritone calling the pull.

Update: If you can't see the embed loop, Click
here to hear the music--one time thru. (Thanks Kathy!)

On Your “S”

In Berkeley town was a study done,
Where the scholarship’s quite muddy,
And psych profs roll out a lot o’ good fun,
Data pushed and pulled like putty—’eave!

Glaser and Sulloway’s motions told
Of the Right’s simplistic notions.
Amusing hey?—as their classmates mold,
Reading Marx for their devotions—’eave!

Are they mere intellectual truants? Quite!
Here’s scholarly incongruence;
That vast groups argue only ‘black or white’
Shows a ruddy great lack of nuance!—’eave!

They’re meta-analytical (!) science-wise
They place more or less reliance—
On a wordy thesaurus they synthesize
For symposia (and big clients)—’eave!

Oh!
George Bush pinned an “S” on thee,
Ye are stupid and dull, we so decree.
Thou Babbitted cream of the bourgeoisie,
Oh, George Bush pinned an “S” on thee.

Cometh now this Starkman actor nigh
Lo, the masses’ big detractor.
D’ye think you think? well you’re ailing, aye!
Diagnosis: dread “S” factor—’eave!

Us right dim folks, we are all around,
Our minds never worth a dollar.
I’d rather swim where the sharks abound
Than study as a Starkman Scholar—’eave!

With the 'quality' vote running so lax now,
Winnow out the mindless throwbacks.
Will Equality still be rule, highbrow,
When ye’ve placed your mental poll tax—’eave!

As Neal-boy seeks for a formal key,
He worries we’ll become the normal.
Is he brighter than he, or she, or thee,
With a skull full o’ stuff from Hormel—’eave!

Are your kids in school? here’s a right good rule;
The irrational be a-scorning.
Better watch that school or, like Neal-the-fool,
Might an intellect die a-borning.

Oh!
George Bush pinned an “S” on thee,
Ye are stupid and dull, we so decree.
Thou Babbitted cream of the bourgeoisie,
Oh, George Bush pinned an “S” on thee.

*Banjo courtesy DP Musikwerke

2003-12-11T21:21:00.000-08:00

Miserable Failures

A million dead, that's what you said.
It never came to pass.
To push a list with so much missed
Is peerless now, for brass.
   Why not try some stock prediction?
   Risk your bucks on fact-or-fiction.

You saw great seas of refugees;
All know that came to naught.
Remember now exactly how
Far off base you were caught.
   Pick a stock (play Nostradamus)
   Wind up poor and not so famous.

Their ruined land done by our hand?
A posit most ill hid.
Now farmers till, the marshes fill,
And power's on the grid.
   Investing? discount what you say,
   For a more healthy I-R-A.

Burned out shells of oil wells
You claimed would fire the land?
'Tis just the bind inside your mind
Distracts you. Dude! they planned.
   Predictions bad to mediocre,
   Please now, don't infect my broker.

The Arab street would give us heat;
'Gainst us you said they'd rise.
"Democracy!" "Let Us Be Free!"
Fills squares, with shining eyes.
   Do predict our next imbroglio;
   Far away from my portfolio.

It's all for Oil! you peaceniks moil
This meme's accusing wail.
As taught in school, it's fungible
And out for open sale.
   Talk is cheap, poor is prediction;
   Poverty your predilection?

The swarming Left, of sense bereft,
Sinks deep in ills to come.
Their leitmotif for certain grief—
Non Cogito Ergo Sum.
   Take your shrill 'advice' and stuff it.
   I'm with George, and Warren Buffett.

2003-12-10T16:46:00.000-08:00

2003-12-04T21:08:00.000-08:00

Ev'ry winter holiday we host a relative array—
All our brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and nieces,
Keen on quite a good buffet from a fully loaded tray
Of lip-smacking gustatory masterpieces.

There is seldom disarray for it's a jolly holiday,
(Though on three of Chardonnay I'll play my Fender)
Made the cranberry pureé, while outside the children play
(If they're in the room, I never use the blender)

Ev'ry winter holiday, not then caring what we weigh—
We've the joy that comes near end of Fall semesters;
With a turkey on display and the delicate bouquet
Of head cheese from those belov'd delenda esters.

2003-11-15T23:59:00.000-08:00

Possibilities

Says Teddy Rall to one and all
Been working so far at a crawl
I push the pace now, to appall
You well beyond a widow.

Says Teddy Rall, they oughta die
I'll put 'em down, I hope they cry;
I dream a grinding shaming’s nigh.
Remoras shrieking ditto.

One bridles at a senseless lad,
Objects to estimation bad—
For my part, well, it makes me mad!
Plain speaking's not a sin though.

Democracy has facets—
Has he opened then a window?

Some startling things are in our past;
A wall came down so slow, then fast,
'Twas driven by a hearing vast
Of life as one respected.

Consider this then, if you will;
This baleful braying of the shrill,
Not subtle’d with a pound of skill,
Is to the world connected.

Yon listener hears the total tale—
From reaching out to snarling rail,
The whole falls in a busy hail.
Tell me, which thought’s selected?

Who predicts then, full effect
On gulags' poor dejected?

Of vengeful vile things now said
An honest heart is filled with dread
To see such dirty venom spread
In view of all the neighbors.

Detractors though live on—all see
Indifference from authority,
For voices from democracy
Are sheltered by its favors.

A marvel then, where thousands die
Or have a chat and lose an eye,
Is how much rule one can defy
And still his freedom savor.

A case in point now underway;
To make free seekers braver?

Would it be so strange if they,
In seeking out their freer day,
See such example prove the way
And go on to apply it?

Do men and women under balk,
When they hear this seditious squawk,
Think "he said that? then we could talk!
Democracy—let's try it!"

How many times we scream and shout
To see our bugbears brought about
Through our propensity to spout.
In truth, can you deny it?

A cosmic joke on Theodore Rall
"It works for them, lets try it!"

2003-11-11T06:36:00.000-08:00

THANK YOU!

2003-10-31T00:01:00.001-08:00

HALLOWEEN SATIRE - The Thick and the Dead Dept.

...Tombstones we'd like to see...

2003-10-20T22:56:00.000-07:00

Woundwort at Silflay Hraka has the goods on an important perspective for the hungry of the world.

Oh Pam

Oh Pam, dear Pam, now off the screen,
Extending forth your dômain?
Our minds are sure on chicken, yes!
There mounded 'neath the rômaine.

Oh Pam, belovèd Pam oh yes,
At your broadside they're flocking,
To think of dinner's starting point
Whenever you come knocking.

Oh Pam, sweet Pam, yon Poster folks
Can pitch a tasty snack.
For what roué would stop at ribs
When salad’s served en raque?

Oh Pam, committed Pam, beware,
At PETA, how you're rated.
Those vegans might beguile you once
For PR, er, inflated.

2003-10-14T07:06:00.000-07:00

As I post this I'm thinking of an old friend in the East who is an exception. He's done it right, and his daughter now follows his steps. There are others, of course, but Gresham's law surely applies to all endeavor. Who knows how many we've lost.

Where Did They Go?

I'd hate to shovel excrement, or dig up sewer pipe.
I'd fain avoid the abattoir; the blood, the brains, the tripe.
I'm loath to colonoscopize, lance boils, or cut a cyst.
But which of worthy work shun I? The job of journalist.

It's not that cov'rage of our world is not a needed trust,
With moral charge; a safeguard from untruth, from word unjust.
The journalist is picket against harm by fact reviled,
A soldier in a struggle. No, it's for my wife and child.

Suppose my boy, computer wise and reader on the Net,
Says "look here dad the facts are there, he really was a threat."
Your byline crushed the Kay report, please dad what have you done?"
How could I face him then and say, "I haven't read it, son."

[The truth is, I have read it and there's sure enough to chill
The fiercest real skeptic—now he's gone and never will
Slow-build threat to our families—behind bylines, I'm glad
But story framer prejudice requires right stuff look bad.]

"You've got to understand it son, I have to go along—
It means my job and, as they say, are we to know what's wrong?
The pressure is enormous—my bosses and my peers..."
No. Children grow up nervous when their daddies live in fear.

So let them grow upright and tall, their father to admire;
Too good a coin to waste on biased scheme and peerish ire.
For now I'll run this refuse truck—here's trash without a twist.
Where facts are wanted, straight and proud, I'll be a journalist.

2003-10-03T15:58:00.000-07:00

Michele at A Small Victory knows when she’s had enough. Knows how to say so too. Drink warning on her penultimate ‘graph.

Many thanks Michele for the idea.

Negative Charge

So you’re wanting my vote—well, you sent me a note
(Ev’ry post brings a sizeable crop).
It ran seven pages and listed eight rages,
From the mild, to the over-the-top.

"He’s been on the take" "She's a cheap rotten fake"
"Years ago he once groped a young honey."
And the bitterest bane of this crappy campaign?
"Help me hamper this creep, send some money."

You do flail at your foes with a scandalous hose
'Cause they’re dirty, and piggish, and evil.
That’s quite clear enough from the unpleasant stuff
One can read in a Lex-Nex retrieval.

For the pandering Press is a piece of this mess
As they hammer their "realization"
That each rum candidate on the 'enemy' slate
Is a hazard to civilization.

It is more than suspected you fear a rejected
Campaign if your plan is specific.
So you roll out the rant, disrespectable cant,
And your use of reproach is prolific.

A positioning paper, not "Aaack! he's raper,"
Is what we would rather be reading.
As a bold power seeker, at bottom you're weaker
To peddle ad-hominum screeding.

We don't really care if she's got purple hair,
If he cross-dressed, or tweaked Hitler's bum.
Is your foe a puff-adder? It don’t really matter;
From constant bombardment, we’re numb.

So you're wanting my vote? Then bold candidate, note;
If you'd honor the task, get a clue.
Don’t yammer and squeal rather, plainly reveal
What it is that you’re wanting to DO!

2003-09-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

And what did you learn in school today?

Plain Cake Please

Post-simple Simon and his pie-man,
School bakers price their crullers
By content, flavor, deliciousness?
Nay, merely frosting colors.

A buck for pallid, less for tan,
Two bits alone for choc'late.
Some crullers dear while others cheap?
Is something there to balk at?

A deeper look is needed then;
What is this method costing,
To pick a cruller or a being
Worth solely in its frosting?

Know, human nature doesn't change
And we must go along.
"A cruller marked at just two bits?
Too cheap! Pray tell, what’s wrong?"

2003-09-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

Descent

You brought both down and measured your true height;
Inflicted weeping’s grueling twisted drone.
Our eyes locked then toward your drained benight,
And ageless lamentation from your own.

Among the ancient faiths a tantrum child;
Your multitudes bent low, as struck with rods.
Submission is your life, progress defiled,
While men you shill for play at tinnish gods.

Such hollow men swell solely in your sight,
For you have strayed, decayed from ancient time.
Here modest striving people make our height,
So measured in a simple fireman’s climb.

We made the steel you stole and swung o’er head
Thou modern engineering acolyth!
Now at our hindrance anywhere you tread,
Your hosts of singing swords a sorry myth.

As slavery serves the slaver, or the pimp,
The burqha and madrassa serve you well.
Young lives you stunt with soul malforming crimp,
For heaven that demands your children’s hell.

You brought both down, to your indecent plane;
Perverted scripture so the scholar delves.
A quarter of the world you cast in stain,
Harram ‘aleikhee—upon Him from yourselves.

Transposing child Shear-jashub named of old;
Your brighter remnant homing to our fold.
The rest—our free hand will its sword retain,
As you and tinnish brothers die in vain.

2003-09-03T22:38:00.000-07:00

Suggested by something at Mr. Blair's

We Are The Trolls

We are the trolls, unreachable we;
Superior surface, deep in plea.
Columns of numbers without a sum.
Practice always, never become.

No achievement with even breath,
A gentler life is a living death.
Struggling we, expending time
Ripping and tearing at life sublime.

Effortless life—vast time extent
Causeless to us—self evident.
Sneering and angry in rootless rote
Changing the globe with a dead remote.

We are the trolls; oppression cry
Oblivion tease (desire to die?)
Never content—so invisible,
To each but us, too risible.

From chic 'n clever 'n smug 'n tight,
From moral imperative less contrite,
Distilling out an eclectic pique,
Echoing down with a ghastly shriek.

Boiling antipathy to the clear,
Structural hate drives keening fear;
Deep is the plea (life, this thy sting?)
From swallowing nothing is anything.

We are the trolls, unreachable we;
Superior surface, deep in plea.
Columns of numbers without a sum.
Practice always, never become.

V A C A T I O N

2003-08-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

I hope you are having a good time this summer. From today, DoggerelPundit will be on vacation—and well away from the 'sphere—until sometime after the end of August.

In the meantime why not enjoy, or re-enjoy, these titles from the list over there-->

Don't Give It A Thought

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t.

EUoops!

What’s in a name?

Here's To Joanne!

It’s all in her name, but which name?

New Diet

Slim while you read. Needed: plastic tablecloth.

If Only...

A tale of complaint and solution.

Advice

For poseurs, excuse me, prosers—here’s one way to
‘unmuddle’ your message.

In A Yard

Are we speaking the same language here?

Now Not You

In which a member of the ‘Me Generation’ wakes up.

Remember Me

Appeasers, put yourself in the picture. Like it?

Ditty Bares Peacenik

Still my favorite song parody.

2003-07-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

And now...a little postscript to "I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Media Journalist," again from the beloved "Pirates." And again, with the revered Sir William Gilbert doing all the heavy lifting. For extra fun, right-click this link to the Midi melody and sing along.

Much more of this and we’ll be casting the Pundits Of Blograntz. Could Kevin Klein play a credible Glenn?

Oh, Better Far to Blog And Link

KING:
        Oh, better far to blog and link
        On a screen before you, without ink,
        Than play a sanctimonious part
        With a pundit head and a pundit heart.
la-la   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   La!
        Away to the Media world go you,
la-la   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   La!
        Where talking heads are well-to-dooooo;
        But I'll be true to the links I bring,
        And blog and link as a Pundit King.
        Foooooor I am a Pundit King!
la La   la La,   la-la-la,   la La!
        And it is, it is a glorious thing
        To be a Pundit King!
        For I am a Pundit King!
Blogosphere:
        You are!
        Hurrah for the Pundit King!
KING:
        And it is, Indeed, a glorious thing
        To be a Pundit King.
Blogosphere:
        It is!
        Hurrah for the Pundit King!
        Hurrah for the Pundit King!

KING:
        When I sally forth to link, each day
        (With two other columns along the way)
        I check a few more facts, it's true,
        Than a dead-tree pundit is wont to do;
la-la   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   La!
        And many an Editor, it’s been shown,
la-la   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   la-la-la,   La!
        If he doesn’t mind being termed a drone,....
        Will manage somehow to let through....
        More dirty work than e'er I do,
        Foooooooooooor I am a Pundit King!
la La   la La,   la-la-la,   la La!
        And it is, it is a glorious thing
        To be a Pundit King!
        For I am a Pundit King!
Blogosphere:
        You are!
        Hurrah for the Pundit King!
KING:
        And it is, Indeed, a glorious thing
        To be a Pundit King.
Blogosphere:
        It is!
        Hurrah for the Pundit King!
        Hurrah for the Pundiiiiiiit King!

(Engraving courtesy of Pyrate Captain Henry Morgan and one of the "Four Horsemen")

2003-07-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

You know how it is. A pin-prick here, a pin-prick there, and one day you wake up to realize you’re bleeding profusely, from too many pricks.

So Much In One Place

There's an air of buoyant fraud ‘bout Massachusetts;
A curious place I wouldn't want to live.
While they scoff at men like Bennett,
Moby Dick spouts in the Senate.
Their bridge to power; no sin they won't forgive.

Miasma of decay clouds Massachusetts;
The Boston priests are rumored to be kind.
On the whole, I think I’d rather
Be empewed with Cotton Mather,
Than leave the Mass, my nine year-old behind.

Elites are dumbing down in Massachusetts
(Take the Cambridge Peace Commission—please...away)
Once 't was Lodges, cods and Cabots
Now it’s sainted peacenik Babbitts
Who think other's mangled bodies are the way.

Years past, the place was known as Taxachusetts;
Excessive rates would make the spenders grin.
Not a care for business’ grieving
Ah, but when they started leaving...
Well, lets just say pols jumped to rein it in.

There are those, would rightly call it Perscu-setts;
That harsh DA, he knew witch-hunts would try.
So rots Gerald Amirault
Guiltless, in a prison vault.
(Perhaps they still eat bread from moldy rye)

Education is a force in Massachusetts;
DSS is there to see you get that right.
What the Bryants have been learning
Would set any stomach churning.
A learning child learns best absent such spite.

There's a smarmy, tribally feel to Massachusetts;
What better place for torting sharks to meet.
Where attorney Banzhaf calls it
"Public Health," but fills his wallet;
And Teddy gets a plane ride—what a treat!

Why single out the state of Massachusetts?
For elitist crap it’s something of a base.
True, such arrogance—gross or fine-cut,
Tars the other forty-nine, but
Old Cape Cod and all, sports so much in one place.

Thanks to The Mrs. for ahh…pointing out some of the latest pricks.

2003-07-06T23:49:00.000-07:00

Since its debut in 1879 at the Savoy Theater in London, there have been many many parodies of the favorite of the Pirates of Penzance, namely “I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major-General.” It was, of course, originally a send-up; skewering the form-over-function incompetence inherent in the command-by-class system rife in the British Military of the time.

You may decide that such form-over-function issues are still with us…

I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Media-Journalist

(with thanks in perpetuity to William Schwenck Gilbert)

I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist,
I‘ve information biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I know the talking heads and every bureau puke and oracle
from A-B-C to C-N-N in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with schedules for sabbatical,
I live to write a sentence that’s both simple and grammatical,
I’m good at leading questions, and my team puts out a lot o' news,
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
ALL:
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not, oh not in use!

I’m very good at racial stereotyping and diversity,
I know the ‘scientific names’ endorsing this perversity,
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

I’m full of mythic history, rewritten so it’s ‘relevant’;
I like my coffee caustic, I’ve a pretty taste for Volauvent,
I quote in daily articles the views of quasi socialists,
In columns I accede to notions from post-modern notionalists;
I can tell un-Dowded talking points from those in New York Magazine,
I help the croaking chorus bitch at 'nonsequences' unforeseen!
Then I am in a business you’d mistake for Gilbert’s Pinafore,
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what I’m in it for!
ALL:
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it for!
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it for!
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it, in it for!

Then I can write a memo with Orwellian verisimilitude,
And tell you ev’ry detail of how Donaldson’s toupee is glued:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

In fact, when I know what is meant by “permalink” and “Blogosphere,”
When I can tell at sight a hunting rifle from a frogging spear,
When I know Stars’ affaires ain’t news and how our coverage went awry,
And when I know precisely what is meant by who, what, where ‘n why.
When I have learnt what progress has been made in free economy,
When I know more of ethics, real science, and isonomy,
In short, when I’ve a smattering of what is news, not punditry,
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!
ALL:
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!.
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead, done dead-tree!

For my journalistic knowledge, though not firm or evidentiary,
Is what I learned in Journal’ School and really so last century,
But still, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
But still, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

2003-07-04T00:44:00.000-07:00

"We hold these truths to be self evident..."

"...certain inalienable rights..."

"...are, and, of right, ought to be..."

"...equal..."

"...we pledge..."

"...and our sacred honor..."

"We, The People"

"...a more perfect union..."

"...for the common defense..."

"...the blessings of Liberty..."

"...our posterity..."

"...conceived in liberty..."

"...shall not perish from this earth..."

It’s yours. Celebrate it. Live it.

2003-07-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

1907-2003

She knew! and when she didn't know, she knew
A way to search, and trusting certainty
To serve her as it always had--She knew!
There in a veiled world where she could see.
Thrice veiled it is and for most all of us;
A sense tells fond desire near...somewhere...there.
But know and mark it sure--for 't's ever thus,
A veil gives way before a whispered dare.
Her dares did roar and roar again but they
Were roars apart--she saw no veil, you see.
She chose her life each minute on her way,
Achieving life's sole valid royalty.
Unself-conscious grace, She, of our few--
She won it all--and us--because she knew!

2003-06-18T06:25:00.000-07:00

Well. Here’s another lawmaker come down with an acute case of the dumbass.

”Who voted for these guys?”

“Not me!”

Orrin Spare That C:/ (with apologies to George Pope Morris)

Orrin, spare that C:/ !
Touch not a single drive.
Each day it works for me,
And I’ll help it survive.
‘Twas our forefathers’ hands
That dear, our freedoms bought.
Now Orrin let them stand,
Your folly touch them not.

When I drive out to stores,
Seek deals both near and far,
For Penney’s missing drawers,
What next? You’ll torch my car?
Sure, idle boys will hack,
And lots will even steal.
Of fixes there’s no lack
And more come on appeal.

You yawp there’s no excuse
For violating law?
But your proposed abuse
Of statutes is most raw.
That old familiar buzz;
Are you Big Business’ tool?
Or is it just because
The Senator’s a fool?

Our heartstrings to law cling
Old Charter! trusted friend.
Would hacking be a sting
When for your friends you bend?
Let’s stick with settled rules,
With precedents to guide.
Lest you be classed with fools
And voters have your hide.

Link via Instapundit

2003-06-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

NOT to be completely outdone by VodkaPundit, DoggerelPundit, who does a fair amount of cooking, offers a recipe. This one is delicious, and deceptively simple. If it leads to a cookbook, so be it. But advance or no advance, it won’t be called:
“It Feeds A Village”

Salmonic Verses

Take half a cup of lemon juice, the same of dry white wine,
One tablespoon of Tarragon chopped fresh—not minced, yet fine.
For salt, a single teaspoon, for pepper half o’ that,
A threat of powdered garlic—just two pinches in the vat.
Mix in three drops of liquid smoke, not less and no way greater;
The last component—salad oil, but wait! That’s not ‘til later.

Spin up your yuppie-blender or jar-mix it 40 shakes,
Then pour it ‘round about two pounds of Salmon—one inch steaks.
Refrigerate this overnight; do turn it once or twice,
To make sure that the marinade can soak into each slice.
That’s why we left the oil out—this works like Ceveché,
Infusing all the fish with every essence and bouquet.

Clean the grill of sauces burnt from when the ribs last squealed,
Then light the fire (and need we ask—ahem—the charcoal’s real?)
Inside, pour off the marinade into a proper bowl,
Beat in three ounces salad oil, full blending is your goal.
Outside, when coals are ready, spray some PAM upon the grill,
That oughta make a burst of smoke—if fire, grill needs a chill.

Now take each piece of Salmon from the marinade and oil
(And Dude! no way, no how, be cooking this on any foil)
Put ‘em straight there on the grill, ten minutes on a side,
Cook covered—if your heat is right the PAM will make ‘em glide.
Pour marinade at very turn (dry fish is such a crime)
Serve garnished with fresh Tarragon and slices of a Lime.

Questions? email for salmon support. Looking forward to Stephen (Green's) book.

2003-05-27T13:33:00.000-07:00

Over at Gut Rumbles, Acidman pours a little vitriol on them lawyers what [allegedly] closed the waterpark…right when it’s a-gittin’ hot.

“The answer is clear. The insurance company knows that if some idiot kid violates every safety rule posted in the park, does something incredibly stupid and breaks his fool neck, a sharp lawyer can find twelve dipwits with which to staff a jury to find the water-park liable for the dumbass's injuries and award several badzillion dollars in their verdict. It happens all the time.

Update: Whilst I was out of town, He added fool to the fire.

Peroration

Legally Beagley indignation
Pursuing anomalous manifestation,
Filing of tortious litigation,
Closing summation saponification.

Persuaded are they by exhortation
Demonizing the Corporation.
In Jurious granting huge reparation,
Increasing commercial constipation,

Torting of tools of confrontation
For answering criminal molestation,
And other examples of dilatation,
Anticipate ultimate confiscation.

Gynecological operation
Opened to close for aberration
Forcing an MD abdication,
Menacing fruit of consummation.

Indemnity companies' expectation
Of profit from proper operation
Relegate risk to fragmentation,
Benefiting the population.

Nations beyonding compensation,
Opening business to depredation,
Producing investment hesitation,
Generally harm us all.

2003-05-26T15:06:00.000-07:00

Day To Remember

Here’s to Soldiers from File to General,
Fighting at our behest.
The ones who stand this day’s parades,
And those who lay at rest.

They battle so you can live and breathe
Your peace bought with their pain.
So you live on each day; perhaps
Ideals work to attain.

Remembering is an easy thing—
Once you recollect
That, for the duty they fulfilled,
You owe returned respect.

You Aren't My Sunshine Dept.

2003-05-13T23:15:00.000-07:00

Now the Oreo cookie is under attack.

Oreo Rotundo

Little Stevie Joseph, not so little now,
May have found a way to change a cookie to a cow.
Little Stevie Joseph, has trans-fatty woes,
Girdeth he to battle growth of tissues adipose.

Little Stevie Joseph, fighting for us all;
Fat is hidden out of sight in cookies big and small.
No one knows the dangers? Knowledge in the lurch?
Forty pages show up in a single Google search.

Little Stevie Joseph, ate it all for years,
Hydrogen is flowing back as deposition nears.
He consumed the goodies—cookies, pie and bread,
What became of all the fat? Gone straight to his head.

Little Stevie Joseph, California’s pride.
He may join the TLA with pockets deep and wide,
Grab a lot of moo-lah, at the plaintiff’s rail
And help to buy a Senator if one comes up for sale.

Thanks to Bigwig, for the link. Wanna rant at Stevie? Bigwig has contact info too!

2003-05-08T06:40:00.000-07:00

Hyperbole thy name is Robbins. Members of the National Press Club were entertained. . .but were they amused.

If Only…

The chilling winds are blowing,
With the end of freedom showing—
The voices of the masses all but stilled.
For dissension within hearing
There are people disappearing—
Or racked apart, electrified or grilled.

With due-process in the shitter,
Former unified are bitter—
And hatred from the world has grown insane.
Bush has ordered ninety freighters
Just to haul off all the traitors—
You'd think that Civil War is nigh again.

Get a champion, nay, a Savior!
Someone bigger, badder, braver—
To lead us on to fight oppression's fog.
One with guts to fight repression
And light talent for impression—
If only Timmy Robbins had a Blog.

There are millions out here waiting,
No one talking or debating—
We're hunkered down and cringing like a dog.
Trodden comment in the nation
Needs a spark for conflagration—
If only Timmy Robbins had a Blog.

There is so much he could teach us
If he had a way to reach us—
Us helots here, hell, all the hoi polloi.
To learn First Amendment meaning
'Bout which he and Sue are keening—
I'd click him in a minute, with great joy!

It would not be all instruction
He could learn, or cause a ruction—
To make a point one needn’t be a hog.
An argument refuted
Doesn't mean your rights are booted—
(We’d see a lot of that on Timmy's Blog).

If you wonder how he's knowing
That the end of freedom's showing—
Why, everyone he knows is saying so!
Would he bust a blogger chorus
For a suit by William Morris—
Oppression? That depends now, don't ya know.

How post 9/11 unity
Gives weaponized immunity
I really couldn't say, I'm just a cog.
Is he merely wishf'lly thinking?
To the answers we'd be linking—
If only Timmy Robbins had a Blog.

Envoy

Say Tim, here's free speech action
With no pressure group or faction—
No force to make you post just what you should.
Er. . . there's some whose disapproval
Threaten bloggers with 'removal'
(Now in dungeons but, hey, far from Hollywood).

So, what about it Robbins
Do just newsies hear your sobbin'—
Is all this talk to pull each other's log?
The hits would be attractive
And, of course, with Comments active—
I dare ya, Timmy Robbins. Get a Blog.

2003-04-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

Mr. Den Beste has an interesting look into aspects of EU defense politics.

EUoops!

Potemkin was a very clever man
Assuring Great Czarina as he weighed
Her want of village swells—he had to plan
A front for screening penury forbade.

His view from rail car for all to see;
A population prosp’ring on the plain.
Behind the wall a hidden bankruptcy
Affronted truth’s partition to maintain.

Potemkin truth! Alive and living well
In Western Europe—comes a brand new Force
As counterweight to NATO; say farewell,
For Western group defense a french divorce.

New operations planning and command
Needs brick, behind this new Potemkin wall.
The EU for a desperate separate hand
Is taking steppes to do the Putin crawl.

A name for EU Ops—oh please with flair,
As acronymic FUBAR hits its crux.
Four weasels now a-bedding with the bear,
Might well be someday known as GERBELFUX.

2003-04-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, Virginia, there are idiotarians. Arriving somewhat late to stop the latest conflict, What The World Needs Is A Peace Garden appeared in the Kansas City Star online, authored by the suspiciously named Sheila Sonnenschein.

“…I think that if presidents, dictators, kings, queens and prime ministers took a course in gardening, maybe they wouldn't have thoughts of war or amassing weapons that destroy life and our environment.

…maybe after this course leaders who keep food from their starving people would turn around and help their nation grow food so that millions won't go hungry.”

Really.

Growing Pains

Gardening! Gardening! Garden for peace!
Set up a plot, get a fifty year lease!
Gardens for peace are a charming solution
(When seeking some manner of moral ablution)

Gardening! Gardening! Garden for peace!
Here's a new wrinkle—all fighting will cease.
Our national leaders must all come together,
Together to garden, whatever the weather.

A simple idea—they'll dig in the ground
They’re equal; all leaders and heads that are crowned.
All digging and planting, together all tilling
Not thinking of war, not thinking of killing.

Imagine the Cold War incredibly brief,
With East Europeans relaxed in relief
To see Nikky Khrushchev with garden components
Out burying bulbs instead of opponents.

The lushest of gardens we missed by a hair,
If only the warmongers could have been there.
Those national killers at gardening labors
Instead of invading their peaceable neighbors.

The Kaiser, and Hitler—they dug up the ground,
Spread forests of organic matter around.
And Stalin cleared land in the sunny Ukraine
For his super collectivist garden campaign.

Amending the soil’s a particular need
Before one can contemplate spreading out seed.
If ‘Ph’ is high, little seedlings will suffer—
Herr Himmler sends ashes, the soil to buffer.

And blood meal helps give a nitrogen lift,
Old Idi Amin could ship tons as a gift.
Pol Pot or Mugabe have bone meal varied,
Dug up from the acres of bodies they buried.

Gardening! Gardening! “Garden for peace”
Peace for the innocent millions deceased.
Gardens for peace, such a charming solution
(When seeking some manner of moral ablution)

Link via Opinion Journal

And that's no Bul Bul Dept.

2003-04-16T19:32:00.000-07:00

Unless you are—or were—a listener of Dr. Demento, you may not have ever heard Frank Crumit’s recording of *Abdulla Bul Bul Ameer, a tale of the battlefield.

Well, there’s now another notorious Arab whose name has a similarly rhythmic ring.

A very gracious hat-tip to these folks who fired the inspiration…

Mohammed Saeed Al Shahaf

The thugs of Saddam their press conferences held
In the Country where sits An Najaf.
And the weirdest of these was a man by the name
Of Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

If you want all their stomachs to go roast in hell
Or the throats of the foe cut in half,
Or a message of how “we will slaughter them all.”
Hear Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

This son of the desert at lectern aroused
Could spit through the Press with his laugh.
A terrible creature in “grunts” and beret
Was Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

Defense men are plenty, and well known to fame,
For the Army that’s run from Qatar.
But the brashest of these is a man by the name
Of Rumsfeld, the DOD czar.

He can lay out position, field questions all day
And be real, without striving for “star.”
In fact he does seem quite the DOD’s dream
Is Rumsfeld, the DOD czar.

One day then did Rummy step up to the mikes
“Baghdad may be next says the staff”
But he reckoned without the bold claiming of doubt
By Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

"Young man, said Shahaf, that prediction you’ll rue
For a spokesman your mouth’s full of gaffe.
We’ll cut out their tongues and then pelt them with shoes.”
Said Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

"They’ll take their last look then at sunshine and brook
O miserable Rumsfeld, you kaf ’
There’s a poison-filled cup, and their rear is blocked up"
Said Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

Said Rumsfeld “my friend you might look hard again,
Surrounding Baghdad, our tanks are.
They’re awaiting Franks’ orders to go and roll in.”
Quoth Rumsfeld, the DOD czar.

So that bellicose Minister screwed up his lip
“Be assured, Baghdad’s safe from riff-raff.
They’ll suicide under the walls—get a grip.”
Said Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

But Rummy gives back just as good as he gets
(As the Press can attest from their scars).
All those Tikriti clans will be wiped by the plans
Of Rumsfeld, the DOD czar.

“Surrounding and pounding, the whole trend has changed
You’re illusion, at which we all laugh.
We’re catching cruise missiles like fish in a net.”
Said Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

“The snake is in pieces, beheading you all,
When surrounded you’ll scatter like chaff.
Those ‘villainous louts’ we’ll continue to rout.”
Quoth Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

But Baghdad has fallen, Kirkuk is now ours,
The Guard just could not stand the gaff.
And where is he now? We ain’t seen him for hours,
Old Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

At the press conference daily the questions are asked
Where the leaders of Ba’ath party are.
To take each one prisoner the soldiers are tasked,
Says Rumsfeld, the DOD czar.

Some scatter abroad, some fight on for their hope,
Holding out on old Saddam’s behalf.
There’s a rumor that stretched at the end of a rope
Is Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

The Press and the Bloggers a tight vigil keep
For a glimpse of this Minister daft.
And the name that they mention; that laughable creep,
Mohammed Saeed al Shahaf.

* "This song was written in 1877 by Percy French at Trinity College for a
college concert. His original title was Abdulla Bulbul Ameer. He sold it
to a publisher for five pounds. It was published without credit to him
and he never received royalties for its later success. Many sources
still list the author as anonymous.

This tune is also known as The Ballade of Ivan Petrofsky Skevar, for
which there are a few variations in the lyrics."
-- Lesley Nelson, www.contemplator.com

2003-04-13T09:41:00.000-07:00

Showin' Your Cards

It's time to show your cards he said, and by gum, we all have;
Win or lose or draw and fold, some hides are in need of salve.
But the bitterest hands that we've seen played, for pots dog lean or plush
Are by idiots who keep bluffing hard when they're showin' a busted flush.

There's a real keen pair to draw to folks, out there at the old U.N.
Security council table stakes in a hell of a gambling den.
Two E.U. leaders have claimed the clubs; the name of the game was Stall,
'Til State laid out a mighty full-house and the steely eyes said Call.

Some players of ours bluffed easy once; the newer, too tough to crack.
Some players are reckless gamblers like Herr Schroeder and Jacques Chirac.
The layin' o' bets when chips are souls; not a time for political mush.
It's better to leave the game than risk one life on a busted flush.

Daft pundits keep on callin' the hands, before the cards are faced
Without regard to the dangers of credibility then debased.
They told us fifty ways we'd lose, 'til they woke up and found we'd won.
Let 'em heed old Kenny's sage advice; don't count 'til the dealin's done.

Cognitive dissonance draws a deuce and plays it to be an ace;
So blind to cards with blood on the backs or tears that blur the face,
To moral cards that don't fit in, sloughed off with a PC hush.
The Media mind can't always tell a straight from a busted flush.

Never they call a spade a spade, appeasers and peacenik hands
Are better suited to play Old Maid than serious moral stands.
Their fists shake, full of Tarot cards and predictions filled with hate,
While Marines, The Third, and the Hunnert 'n First deal out the aces and eights.

Stuck in the hole without hole cards, no kicker now up their sleeve;
The women-in-black, "no war for oil" face up as plain naive.
The statue pulled down on April ninth far more than regime did crush,
It showed each hand of the avant-garde as truly a busted flush.

It's time to show your cards he said, and by gum, we all have;
Win or lose or draw and fold, some hides are in need of salve.
But the bitterest hands that we've seen played, for pots dog lean or plush
Are by idiots who keep bluffing hard when they're showin' a busted flush.

What Brand Of Brothers? Dept.

2003-04-08T11:03:00.000-07:00

Frère Jacques never sounded sooooooo good.

Père Jacques Chir-ac
Père Jacques Chir-ac
Taisez-vous!*
Taisez-vous!
Vous etes un petit Cochon**
Oui, un petit Cochon
Taisez-vous!
Taisez-vous!

Père Jacques Chir-ac
Père Jacques Chir-ac
What's with you?
What's with you?
What could you be thinking?
Was it too much drinking?
You and mein herr Schröeder
Both are in bad odor.
Taisez-vous!
Taisez-vous!

Père Jacques Chir-ac
Père Jacques Chir-ac
How could you?
How could you?
Imaginary Statesman,
Clear is your debate's plan,
Backing a hyena,
Pimping for T. Fina.
Your accounts grow stocky,
Paid for by Iraqis.
Taisez-vous!
Taisez-vous!

Père Jacques Chir-ac
Père Jacques Chir-ac
We see you!
We see you!
You would run the U.N.
Now not such a shoo-in.
You would run the E.U.,
East is saying Pee-eew.
You could get some layoffs
When we see the payoffs.
Nothing there, you’re hopin’
When the files are opened.
Playing to the home front
You may get a poll blunt.
Now you’re playing suck up,
Too Bushed now, you fucked up.
Taisez-vous!
Taisez-vous!

Père Jacques Chir-ac
Père Jacques Chir-ac
Hell with you!
Hell with you!
We prefer simplisme
To Frankish 'perfidisme'
Taisez-vous!
Taisez-vous!

*Taisez-vous, Shut up
**Cochon, Pig

2003-04-01T07:28:00.000-08:00

An Industrial shredder* like the ones in Iraq, discussed here

Hey Sheen, remember the last time you stubbed your toe? Hurt like sin didn't it? See it Martin. Feel it. A single Iraqi voice can be louder than an entire anti-war protest. Hear the real people Martin. Hear them forever.

A Tone Poem For Peace

zzzrzrzrzrzrzrzrzrRZRZRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR……..

Give peace a chance!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Achmed - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

Violence never solved anything!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Adnan - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

No rush to war!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Hamid - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

No blood for oil!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Ismael - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

Give the inspectors more time!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Tarik - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

Not in our name!

(ZRZRRRRRRRRR. Faisal - "Aghhh…no….NO!…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Nooooo…ANNNHHHH"…ZRGRSchchchGNCHSchchch)

The 48 hours are up and cruise missiles have begun hitting government targets in Baghdad.

(ZRZRzrzrzrzrzrzrzrrrrrrrr…rr…rr…rr……r…...)

Any questions?

*These two pictures were cribbed from Jim Treacher who has his own way of dealing with this.