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

He looked into the mirror and
Saw what he wished to see
"You studly man!" the mirror purred,
"You take the breath from me!
Now open up your rancid mouth
So I can take a pee."

"I'll gladly be your toilet, glass,"
The deadbeat Dubya groaned,
"If you'll get all those Chinese to
Forgive what they have loaned:
The IOUs I wrote them while
I begged and cried and moaned

For money to finance my wars
On easy credit lines
With compound interest adding up,
Plus those late payment fines
That other people's kids will pay
For my free-lunch designs."

"No way!" the shiny surface gleamed
In its reflective eyes
"You've shot you country's wad and now
You want to peddle lies?
Bend over and let Steely Dan
Give you his dull surprise."

And so the conversation goes,
With Dubya doubling down
Each time he screws the pooch again
He auctions off a town
And lays more debt upon the kids
Which someday them will drown

Dick Cheney tells him, "Go ahead,
No one will ever know!
If we just keep repeating lies
Away the press will go
Since they don't mind the lies as long
As profit they can show."

So, trickle, dribble, surge, and "splat!"
They've fallen on their face
Disgusting not just their own land
But all the human race
How come no Caesar wants to come
To save them from disgrace?

George tried "commanding" once or twice
But found it way too hard
He thought of playing poker but
He didn't have a card
He added up three feet but found
He couldn't get a yard

He had some custom threads made up
In which he liked to dress
"All Military," so he thought,
And likely to impress
A hapless foreign country that
He'd left in great distress

He thought he'd "shock and awe" some folks
By blowing up their land
Then when his vaunted legions failed
He loudly called them grand
And his retarded generals
Got no due reprimand

He started at the finish line
And then reversed his gears
To lose more ground with each new day
'Till after four long years
He wound up at the starting gate
Reduced to crying tears

His "mission" he "accomplished," then
He thought about those terms:
What did they mean to one whose brain
Contained so many germs?
Why did he open up, in fact,
That lethal can of worms?

Thus, questions, questions, everywhere
But no time left to think
Of anything but exits out
Through which the perps might slink
With no one at the Pequod's helm
As it swirls down the drink

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2007