The Misfortune Teller ("Boobie Stud Buzzard Quail Hunt")

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

From time to time a bird would perch
Upon a branch or rock
To gaze upon a scene below
While taking patient stock
Of wolves at dinner feeding on
A hapless fleecy flock

This buzzard, as we call the bird,
Had no wish to unlearn
Survival lessons that his kind
Would wisely never spurn
He knew that once the wolves had left
He'd surely get his turn

But Boobie buzzards had this thing
About not thinking first
When scenting blood they rushed right in
To satisfy their thirst
They smirked and sneered because they thought
Their bubble could not burst

One Boobie typified this breed
Stud Buzzard was his name
He hitched up to Stud Hamster hot
For glory, war, and fame;
Who thought he'd set some minds on fire
But set the world aflame

Stud Buzzard and Stud Hamster longed
To make up for those days
When better men shipped out to fight
While they found countless ways
To feather their own nests at home
To prove that shirking pays

Stud Buzzard, though, had learned some things
About how to pretend
He put on quite a manly show
While finding rules to bend
Which left him free of any wounds
That might take time to mend

Stud Buzzard hatched an ideal plan
He knew it couldn't fail
He pledged to blast Al Qaeda like
A covey of some quail
Except that when Stud Buzzard missed
He looked both tired and frail

His strategy for bagging birds:
Get ready, fire, then aim
Much like his blunders in Iraq
That bomb and kill and maim:
Just pull the trigger, damn it all,
It's nothing but some game!

So Dick went "hunting" with a friend
To stalk birds less his size
And shot at things hid in the grass
To bag as his great prize
But got more egg upon his face
Than he would realize

For shooting geezer lawyers looks
Like not the studly thang
To occupy a "leader's" time
When "war" drums boom and bang
`Cause, after all, when "we're at war"
Should not Osama hang?

The of Stud Buzzard's power grab
Has gone right to his head
He aimed to hit Osama but
Hit Baghdad homes instead
Unleashing "shock and awe" that left
Uncounted people dead

He sneered into his armpit as
He swung his gun around
While Secret Service flacks dispersed
Like grouse upon the ground
Too bad Dick's aged comrade failed
To heed that "clicking" sound

For as Dick brought the hammer back
He turned to hear the noise
Of his good buddy's loud approach,
Experiencing joys
Reserved for wealthy senile men
At play with loaded toys

He shot a geezer lawyer in
The face and chest and head
Where Gerald Ford used golf balls
Dick Used birdshot beads instead
Inflicting "friendly fire" upon
A "friend" now hurt in bed

But who has lost a single job
Or paid a single buck
For screwing pooches faster than
George Bush can jive and shuck
The studly Buzzard Dick just rolls
In no-bid cost-plus luck

Republicans attack the weak
At home and overseas
It comes with Party membership:
Republican Disease
It means tax less and spend much more
For anything they please

This bidness with the little birds:
Unmitigated gall!
To blast away at fleeing fowl
With eye not on the ball
And then tell litanies of lies
Too long to list them all

This sure does look embarrassing
Like wars gone badly wrong
When cakewalks turn to quagmires
And the weak turn strangely strong
When short wars lost through negligence
Get newly labeled "long"

Stud Buzzard's rank incompetence
Now serves as metaphor
He plays with guns and shoots his friends
While spinning Boobie lore
To hypnotize his loyal cult
So they'll his lies ignore

Just focus on Stud Hamster's look:
His proudly preening pose
Behold his arms akimbo and
His upward angled nose
And never mind the treasures lost
Don't look too close at those

Now heed the swell new slogans that
Our word magicians bless
Like your inflating currency
Their worth gets quickly less
But not before they've done their work
Which you will never guess

So studly Buzzard Dick flies off
To do what no one sees
He rides in limo convoys while
Our troops ride IEDs
And while he spies on us at home
Our freedom from us flees

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