****
There he stands, the best that money can afford,
In his black frock with face turned upward to the Lord.
Oh so proud, but yet most humble,
In diction, he's not about to stumble.
Eloquently, he makes it clear,
Why at this time we're meeting here.
It's to make some worthwhile statements,
Others may call them sad laments.
Glancing back to his supporting cast,
Needing a backbone for this task.
Seeing the nod of the lady in pink,
He knows exactly what to think.
Now to put it in the best of terms,
Before they send the body to the worms.
Praise is a must that can't be denied,
(But in his mind, hopes the remains be fried.)
In stature, he isn't short, yet not tall,
Behind the lectern it matters not at all.
With sunken eyes, he death-like grins,
Then faces the crowd, before he begins.
In his best, parlor-like monotone,
He reminds us of how the war was almost won.
Given half a chance, it's his belief,
We would've been saved this heartfelt grief.
But evil forces came into play,
When the dice were rolled that sunny day.
But that's a distant past,
We're moving forward now at last.
For you see, as he does tell,
Burying this one will serve us well.
He moves from praise and kind words too,
To his message to which we should hew.
In th' self imposed trance, his pallor face,
Reveals much, to those seeking his embrace.
In his speech like imagined, Ichabod Crane,
Comes words from his tortured brain.
If we may pause just a bit,
And share some of Wash Irving's wit
.
Is to compare the Director with Crane,
Then, back to the current refrain.
"His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears,
Large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose,
So that it looked like a weathercock,
Perched upon his spindle neck,
To tell which way the wind blew.
To see him striding along the profile of a hill
On a windy day, with his clothes bagging
And fluttering about him, one might have mistaken
Him for the genius of famine, descending upon the earth,
Or some scarecrow eloped from a corn-field."
And the Director continued, "No more shall we sit at this Devil's feet.
Our ranks have grown too large to accept defeat.
With new converts to our fold,
We must strike out, most bold."
Compromise is the hallowed call,
But it's known, not wanted, after all.
Victory must be had regardless of expense,
No time to be a mugwump on the fence.
Now he moves, fiery in his spiel,
Raising images of hope for the nere-do-well.
These brothers and sisters of the cloth,
Have much to win if they're not lost.
Not to mind how they're imprisoned,
A new world order he's envisioned.
Will raise their standards above, the gentry all,
Just give them what they ask for, is his call.
Divide the spoils among all the races,
That's the gospel he embraces.
Twisting words to confuse the masses,
Gifts to all and, of course new taxes.
Emaciated hands reveal he's not well,
Spent too long in this self-imposed hell.
His twisted face and sunken eyes,
Have grown accustomed to his frequent lies.
Spittle dries upon thin lips,
As into frenzy the crowd he whips.
Widely he spreads his brand of vitriol,
A demonocratic mission is the call.
Raising the specter of walking arm in arm,
It's his mission to sound the alarm.
Gathering fellow troupes to rise,
N' defeat this Evil that's in disguise.
His audience rises from its seat,
Claps their hands and stomp their feet(s).
The focus on this leader new,
Given for the masses now to view.
Followers push forward for last sight,
Of this Icon in Casket they've come to fight.
Chanting as only heathen can,
They desecrate this alter built by man.
Now to the grounds where remains are laid,
A few more words of abuse be said.
Then heaping shovelfuls of Dirt,
Becomes a challenge to see who's first.
To lay Bush W. and the Republicans to rest. ****
EPILOGUE
But wait, his eulogy comes too soon
The populace thinks him braying at the moon.
They stand up and with votes most wise
Defeat Tim Johnson, his hand maiden, in disguise.
Their time will pass and all will right,
With the Director's words in bright light.
Voters soon remember,
That promises must be backed by legal tender.
Forgotten will be this man of the hour.
As he sought much greater power.
.
His ill-chosen words, not to be trusted,
He'll be denied the Office for which he long has lusted.
So back to the Plains from which he emerged,
Will come a final funeral dirge.
It's for this little, crooked, twisted man,
Who stepped forward with words, but not a plan.
As times pass and truth does out,
For all men, death comes about.
Each tries to place his name in history,
With muses writing eulogies for such as he.
Does within his body old,
Still dwells a Catholic soul?
Will he end as he began,
Dust to dust and a Republic man?
*****
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