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

The Boobies had a Supine Court
That like a welcome mat
Lay down before an open door
So any crazy bat
Could fly into and then around
The room in which they sat

One Boobie set himself apart
With stripes upon his sleeve
Then like an ancient, ailing Pope
Refused to simply leave
Which guaranteed that when he did
The others would not grieve

The Boobies of the Supine Court
Conceived a thought ideal:
They'd make a law for just one man
And then rule out appeal
In this way they could cover up
What they wished to conceal

This concept of the "unique law"
Had implications plain:
It meant, for one thing, that two men
Could not enjoy the gain
And thus the quaint term "equal" went
Like sewage down the drain

This concept has a glaring flaw
As any fool can see
If you have one law for yourself
Then I want one for me
And if I do not get it then
Upon your law I pee

If your law doesn't work for me
And mine does not for you
Then neither of us has a law
Or even the first clue
About just what a "law" might mean
In any larger view

The Boobie dullards on the bench
Compared two grains of sand
A minor interval which their
Attentions barely spanned
And then like tipsy Tevyas cried:
"There is no other hand!"

As noted elsewhere in this rhyme
The Boobie mind rebelled
At any thought more complex than
A tiny timer knelled
To notify the Boobies that
Their Jello had not jelled

So on the Boobie bench there sat
Nine addled, rattled nuts
Who tied the law in knots through which
No logic ever cuts
Which came from sitting on their heads
And thinking with their butts

They made unnecessary grief
From something truly bland
When they commenced to cogitate
On an injunction grand
To demonstrate the part of "no"
They did not understand

The Congress - one - shall make no law
About divinity
The Congress - two - shall make no law
Respecting deity
The Congress - three - shall make no law
Concerning piety

The Congress, thus, can do no thing;
Not one damn thing at all;
To authorize one single line
Of legislative scrawl
Which might in any way produce
The deadly Church-State maul

But Boobie judges, we should note,
Have simply not the stuff
For parsing single syllables
If litigants play rough
And thus "no" law means "any" if
You want it bad enough

The yellow urine in their blood
Made them a gruesome sight
They talked of freedom loud
But gave it up without a fight
Their pitiful surrender made
A darkness out of light

So Boobie George got his own law
Which no one else could share;
Or, as the Supine Boobies warned,
No one should even dare
(The word "supreme" in legal terms
Means judges need not care)

But then some parents of a wife
No longer much alive
Decided they would have a law
In two-thousand-and-five
The Congress went along, of course,
And now the law means "jive."

A skull with spinal fluid where
A brain once used to live;
A husband with no wife to love
And nothing more to give
Have now for the Republicans
Become a switchblade shiv

A knife to slice the Democrats
Is all these people are
Where petty politicians prowl
Their victims won't get far
As Presidents and Congressmen
Enjoy their fake bazaar

Of course, the people will not see
The maimed and dead GIs
Those brain dead soldiers and their kin
Who've suffered for some lies
Concocted by Republicans
And their appointed spies

The useful symbol cannot speak
Or say what it intends
Its usefulness comes only from
The passive way it bends
Before the needs of others whose
Collusion never ends

But now we have the Democrats
In power for their turn
With their own president to shred
The laws that they, too, spurn
The people had a “choice,” you see:
To fry or else to burn

And so, once more, the courts have claimed
That dark of night must rule;
That tyranny’s enabler must
Protect the bungling ghoul
From Justice – License guaranteed
To make the despot drool

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2005, 2010