Boobie Necrophiliacs
(from Fernando Po, U.S.A., America's post-literate retreat to Plato's Cave)

Some Boobie Necrophiliacs
Have crawled out of their holes
To sniff around a living corpse
Like morbid, maudlin moles
In neither-life-nor-death they seek
Political controls

A woman with a long-dead brain
Lies flaccid and serene
A lump of breathing vegetable
Hooked up to a machine
While right-wing ghouls converge to dine
On her pathetic scene

Republican hypocrisy
Has crawled up its own ass
To try and make a symbol of
A protoplasmic mass;
A frantic move to mask the stench
Of legislative gas

Four years into their power trip
With no results to show
They find that Boobie Tom Delay
Might manage soon to know
The inside of a prison cell
Where he might likely go

And so to cover up their crimes
And vast ineptitude
They've once again resorted to
A symbol truly crude
This time a body comatose
And ripe for something lewd

This body makes the perfect tool
For it cannot reply
To any question asking if
It wishes now to die
So someone else can fill the void
And fabricate the lie

Just as the Grand Ventriloquist
Speaks for the GAWD who can't
And channels HIS instructions to
The trembling Boobie plant
Someone must throw this body's voice
Out of their own small rant

For if this GAWD existed IT
Could grant this body peace
And pull the plug and then stand back
And let the body cease
And thus give all concerned a dose
Of much-needed release

But no, this GAWD needs help for IT
Can't even tie ITs shoes
IT needs Republicans to see that
IT don't get the blues
For only they know all about
The magic spells and clues

What sort of GAWD could be so dumb
As never to converse
With all mankind at once so that
No one could be perverse
And claim that GAWD had joked when
IT Had really swore a curse?

So this poor girl on life support
Must never get the chance
To see if GAWD will let her live
Or else conclude the dance
No one trusts GAWD on this one, kids,
This ain't no sweet romance

We put our faith in the machine
The one that man has made
At least we know the way it works
Unlike the hapless shade
Which, oddly, seems a bit removed
Out in the Everglade

So back into our focus comes
The useful plant-like shell
It cannot speak, it cannot act,
It cannot show and tell
It can't do anything at all
Which makes the ghouls feel swell

They cannot file suits fast enough
They cannot preach too loud
They claim to hate attorneys but
They hire them by the crowd
When power is at stake, you know,
Republicans ain't proud

They'll do whatever deed they must
They'll grab for any ring
Like Hideyoshi at his worst
They'll make the cuckoo sing
Or else like Nobunaga they
Will kill the silent thing

It doesn't matter what they say
They've only one desire
They'll keep that poor heart beating till
They all get to retire
A perfect ghoulish gambit to
Deflect the voters' ire

As Stillwell said of monkeys as
They frolicked in a tree:
"The further up the pole they climb
The more their butts you'll see."
Republicans, of course, fit this
Description to a "T"

In this case, though, they've shot their wad;
They even moon the dead
Or worse, the not-dead body of
A girl who stares ahead
A helpless former life on which
The ghouls of power tread

Wherever went the Democrats:
Those spineless, shrinking flacks?
Why do they curl in fetal balls
Each time the Right attacks?
To show the world that yellow streak
A mile wide down their backs?

It looks like that dead symbol-girl
Will live on for a while
With none to let her die in peace
They'll flay her hide in style –
Those ghoulish politicians who
Dishonor with a smile

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2006