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

A Boobie bungler president
Earned fame as George the Worst
Or, rather, notoriety
As one whose bubble burst;
Who thought he'd found a course to stay
But only found it cursed

His anti-intellectual
Reactionary head
Led him to play commander of
Some troops who mostly bled
He scanned a word spelled "Exit" but
Read "Enter Here" instead

Dyslexia had formed his brain
Into a backward trance
Reversing in him well-known facts
Like "England isn't France"
Impelling him to proudly boast:
"Our strength is ignorance!"

He dove into a swamp to drain
The fetid waters there
But found some alligators bent
On taking up his dare
Who "brought it on" to have him for
Their daily table fare

His "higher father" told him what
He wanted most to hear
But left him in the lurch when things
Turned out a bit unclear
And so it fell to earthly dad
To wipe away the tear

His mom, his wife, his little dog
And even his VP
Supported him in his belief
That one and one are three
For all knew that his "sacred truths"
Could stand no scrutiny

For he had gone unbidden where
The wise would leave some space
Discovering no egress from
His "long war" glacier race
He tried to save his ass but then
Confused it with his face

So now he spins and stalls for time
Each day means one less more
In hopes that in about two years
He'll get to sell the store
And all its empty shelves to some
Investors -- like before!

Tomorrows like his missions creep
And each day seems too full
Of petty paces pushing on
The string that he can't pull
Until the clock of time records
It's final syllable

He wants to spend our money and
He wants to shed our blood
Designing lead balloons that sink
Like rocks into the mud;
Or flights to Mars that crash before
They take off with a thud

"Preventing" wars by having them
Contains a fatal flaw
Which stems from nomenclature meant
To obfuscate and awe
The Boobie mind accustomed to
Debate with men of straw:

Red Herrings begging questions of
Ad Hominem Canard,
A ruptured dialectic duck
Seen quacking in the yard
Discoursing with the chicken hawk
Who glares and clucks so hard

He means to cut the deficit
"In half," or so he says,
By running up his spending
On the toys with which he plays
Deferring till some future time
The payments he defrays

Ostensibly, adults will come;
Just when we do not know
The little kid in power claims
"Inheritance" to blow
Which means that our posterity
Will someday have less dough

He tells us that the next six months
(A "Friedman," so it's called)
Will prove decisive in this "war"
(Or, "occupation" bald)
Although the last eight "Friedmans" seem
To only have appalled

A noted existentialist
Once wrote a one-act play
About three people trapped inside
Forever and a day
With each the others only there
To torment and dismay

The Shiites and the Sunnis have
George Bush now in the game
That Jean-Paul Sartre described for us
To everlasting fame
That "Hell is other people" and
"No Exit" is its name

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