A Pestilential Debate
(after the style of Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin)
His knowledge seems a little spotty,
as compared to You-Know-Her's.
His mouth, untrained, reeks of the potty
while she has learned to couch her slurs
in technocratic jargon tilted
towards the blank, opaque, and stilted
wonkish bureaucratic noise
never overheard when boys,
in locker rooms misogynistic,
taunt the less-than-macho dude
(with All-About-Him's attitude,
self-centered, vain, and narcissistic,
pointing to his own brass balls):
"Why don't you go play with your dolls?"
But You-Know-Her in pantsuit chubby
has an albatross to bear.
To wit: her horn-dog, errant hubby
Bill who makes bizarre look square
when throwing stones from houses glassy
filled with bimbos young and sassy;
interns with thong underwear
on the make for an affair
with Big Dog Bill, the sugar daddy.
White House Oval Office walls,
carpets in the White House halls,
dresses blue, the girl unclad, he
sprayed them with his DNA.
His "territory" marked that way.
Comes now Donald, keen to rumble
with the inbred DC tribe.
Not to whisper, not to mumble,
but to vent his vicious vibe:
Culture War, the right-wing staple
fallible as all things papal
Always worked before. But now?
Could be things have changed? But how
did You-Know-Her's campaign co-opt
the filthy rich, the quagmire fights,
the corporations' free-speech rights?
What can Republicans adopt
that Clinton Democrats have not
already stolen from their pot?
Polls now tell us that it's over
When, just yesterday, they screamed
that more e-mail leaks had drove her
numbers down so that it seemed
she'd have to blame some Russians quickly:
"Vladimir made me look sickly."
Not that Parkinson's disease
that Don says she's got. Oh, Please.
Lavrov smirks at our erections.
Interviewed the other day,
what did Russia's FM say?
"So many pussies in your elections."
Not to choose the Hen or Hun.
Just the pussy, both in one.
Gotterdammerung the Second,
now the Twilight of the Girls.
Wagner surely never reckoned
On a Valkyrie in pearls:
venal, nouveau riche, and jaded
skin and soul both wrinkled, faded,
picking heroes from the banks
Not from those who die in tanks
fighting dogs-of-war jihadis:
mercenary proxy tools,
hopeless, jobless, angry fools
funded by her friends, the Saudis,
Turks, Israelis, NATO, too.
Think she's got a plan? Poor you.
Still, the Russians must have done it.
What they did, whenever, where.
Donald had it lost, then won it?
How'd that happen? Who would dare
commit the crime of journalism?
Speaking truth, fomenting schism
in the land where group-think reigns,
orthodoxy favors chains.
Feeding rubes some information
might cause thinking. Can't have that.
Vote Mosquito! No, vote gnat!
Sturm und drang! Such consternation!
Must we watch this TV show?
Who's to care and what's to know?
In Bosnia she dodged a sniper's
bullets. Really. Hey! Don't laugh!
Then appeared two fake Pied Pipers
(John Podesta's e-mail gaff):
Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders
You-Know-Her's twin subcommanders
one for rats and one for kids.
"Lead them to their doom," she bids.
Campaign strategy uncovered
on computers in her home,
right next to the soap and comb,
not a byte left undiscovered.
Easy for the novice nerd
To record her every word.
"Change the subject fast," she threatens,
"or I'll slime the messenger."
Anything to save the cretins
lining up to work for her.
Nuland, Flournoy, Rice, and Power:
see the witches fume and glower.
Can't wait to unleash the bomb.
Spread the fallout, Nome to Guam.
Never fired a shot in anger,
Never heard the angry bee
whizzing by, too fast to see,
raised in sheltered peace and languor.
By the thumbs stuck up their butts
Something sick surrounds these nuts.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2016