Tuesday, July 24, 2007


All hail, almighty Simmonides
Who when rejected as a groom
Cursed in iambics high and mighties
Until they longed for deathly gloom.
Help me as well to be a pastor
That herds his foes to like disaster;
That blisters out a deadly curse
In octosyllables of verse.
Infuse me with your sense of humor
That I may torture on a wrack
All those who sent us to Iraq
And worse- I’d blossom to a tumor
Until at last George goes insane,
If I should find he has a brain.

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