Prepared to cast folks out for any sin.
For him, the sanctity of marriage loomed
Above all issues. Gays, of course, were doomed.
And when Bill Clinton misbehaved, Dave’s voice
Said resignation was the only choice.
So critics smiled, and backers were appalled,
To learn Dave paid to get his ashes hauled.
Once more, for right-wing folks it really rankles
To see who’s caught with pants around his ankles.
Who’s next? Who knows? But some would take the view
That sanctimony’s often quite a clue.
2007
MIKE HUCKABEE
Arkansas Governor, Contender for the
Republican Presidential Nomination
The Nicest Republican
The nice vote goes to Huckabee.
No other is as nice as he.
He leads a decent sort of life.
He’s married to his only wife.
His kids, we’d bet, still speak to him.
He’s courteous, but isn’t prim.
A cheerful fat man who got lean,
He’s not vindictive, rude, or mean.
Of course, he thinks our way’s been lost:
Abortion is a “holocaust”
And evolution’s just a myth
(The apes are not his kin or kith)
And what the Bible says is true.
The Earth’s not old. It’s rather new—
Six thousand years, from Eve to present.
He’s wacko, sure, but he’s sure pleasant.
2007
RUDY GIULIANI
New York Mayor, Contender for the
Republican Presidential Nomination
An Out-of-Towner Questions a New Yorker About America’s Mayor
“So tell me the most charming feature then
Of he who saved the city from collapse.”
“It might take me a while to think of that.
Offhand, I’d say vindictiveness, perhaps.”
2008
DENNIS KUCINICH
Ohio Congressman, Contender for the
Democratic Presidential Nomination
Dark Horse
Revealed, while running hard with perseverance,
A smallish, left-wing man whose frail appearance
Suggested he’d not finished all his spinach.
Voilá: the vegan congressman, Kucinich.
2008
JOHN EDWARDS
North Carolina Senator, Contender for the
Democratic Presidential Nomination
Yes, I Know He’s a Mill Worker’s Son, but There’s Hollywood in That Hair
A Country Song About John Edwards
He grew up poor in Carolina, sure.
He’s not a fake. He comes from folks like us.
I like the sound of what John Edwards says,
But why’s his hair the kind that plain won’t muss?
Yes, I know he’s a mill worker’s son, but there’s Hollywood in that hair.
He whacks the corporations where it hurts.
His plan is best for caring for the sick.
His wife’s a gem. We’re nutty for the kids.
But Lordy that man’s pompadour’s too slick.
Yes, I know he’s a mill worker’s son, but there’s Hollywood in that hair.
Sure I know he’s got substance and grit, and judging by hair is not fair.
Yes, I know he’s a genuine guy, and there’s plain people’s values we share.
Yes, I know he’s a mill worker’s son, but there’s Hollywood in that hair.
2008
MICHAEL BLOOMBERG
Mayor of New York, Moneybags
Will Bloomberg Run?
This Michael Bloomberg is a small, rich smartie
Who isn’t comfortable in either party.
From Democrat, in New York’s fateful fall,
He switched so he could run for City Hall.
Six years from then, he left the GOP,
Reviving talk among the pols that he
Might try an independent White House go—
Self-financed, in the style of Ross Perot.
Comparing them, Mike’s Carville, Kevin Sheekey,
Saw Mike as just as rich and much less squeaky.
A moderate who’s rarely overwrought,
Mike seemed nonpartisan, and it was thought
If parties chose extremes, then he could enter
And run successfully right down the center.
His drawbacks? Well, his speeches, some would gripe,
Can mimic Ambien, the CR type.
Perot makes Bloomberg somewhat déjà vu-ish.
And, to be frank, they pointed out, Mike’s Jewish.
2008
FRED THOMPSON
Tennessee Senator, Contender for
Republican Presidential Nomination
A Short History of Fred Thompson’s Quest
I
One candidate the Right still hoped to see
Was big Fred Thompson, since they knew that he
Would always, as he’d done on Law and Order,
Protect the unborn and our southern border.
II
Fred Thompson, heir to Reagan, had so far
Just failed to demonstrate he was a star.
He’d started late, and hadn’t closed the gap—
Most Reaganesque in that he liked his nap.
III
For Thompson, Carolina was the test
On whither went his presidential quest.
The pros said, “That’s a state he has to take,
And he just might, if he can stay awake.”
IV
In Carolina, Thompson’s finish meant
That it was time for Fred to fold his tent.
Yes, Fred got out, but evidence was thin
That he was there when he said he was in.
2008
MITT ROMNEY
Massachusetts Governor, Contender for the
Republican Presidential Nomination
Mitt Romney as Doll
Yes, Mitt’s so slick of speech and slick of garb, he
Reminds us all of Ken, of Ken and Barbie—
So quick to shed his moderate regalia,
He may, like Ken, be lacking genitalia.
2008
PHIL GRAMM
Texas Senator, Contender for the
Republican Presidential Nomination
A Pep Talk
“We have sort of become a nation of whiners.”
—Phil Gramm, The Washington Times
As senator, Phil was among the designers
Of laws that helped Enron, which showed no decliners,
Manipulate prices of oil from refiners.
(Its stock can be used in your cat box, for liners.)
His laws helped the mortgage thieves rook naïve signers,
Who then lost their houses and can’t afford diners.
So now he decides we’re a nation of whiners.
Figures.
2008
JOHN MCCAIN
Arizona Senator, Republican Nominee for President
Sweet Jesus, We Hate Him a Lot
A Hymn of Thanksgiving Sung by Right-Wing Preachers About John McCain
Oh, thank you, Sweet Jesus,
Oh, thank you so much
For any distress John has got.
We hope he continues
This streak of bad luck.
Though Christians, we hate him a lot.
Yes, we hate him a lot, we hate him a lot.
Sweet Jesus, we hate him a lot.
He called us all bigots,
Or something like that.
And just ’cause we slandered his daughter.
We did it for Jesus,
Like all that we do,
And John McCain knows that, or oughter.
Yes, we hate him a lot, we hate him a lot.
Sweet Jesus, we hate him a lot.
He treats us real nice now.
He panders to us.
We know, though, he’s not born again.
We hope that he loses.
We’d even prefer
A heathenish Mormon. Amen.
… but then …
Sweet Jesus, We Like Him Much Better
A Hymn of Forgiveness Sung by Right-Wing Preachers About John McCain
Oh, thank you, Sweet Jesus,
Oh, thank you so much.
At last John has learned he’s our debtor.
He chose Sarah Palin,
Who’s real born again.
Who cares if his guys didn’t vet her?
Yes, we like him much better, we like him much better.
Sweet Jesus, we like him much better.
She wouldn’t kill babies,
Which Lieberman’s for.
And that’s why McCain had to get her.
He listens to us now.
He’s up in our laps.
He yelps like a small Irish setter.
Yes, we like him much better, we like him much better.
Sweet Jesus, we like him much better.
2008
MICHELLE OBAMA
First Lady
A Smear Cheer for Michelle Obama
As Performed by the Swiftboat Singers
Who’s not a retiring, shy Southern belle?
Whose Harvard degree is the way you can tell
That she’s so elite she once ate a morel?
Who doesn’t wear flag pins in either lapel?
Michelle.
Rah! Rah! Smear! Rah! Rah!
Who might be a part of a terrorist cell?
Who might have the powers for casting a spell?
Whose fist-knocks may summon the devil from hell?
Who could be, we reckon, a Muslim as well?
Michelle.
Rah! Rah! Smear! Rah! Rah!
2008
SARAH PALIN
Alaska Governor, Republican Nominee for
Vice President
On a Clear Day, I See Vladivostok
The Barbra Streisand Standard as Sung by Sarah Palin
On a clear day
I see Vladivostok,
So I know world affairs.
Don’t say, “No way.”
Though I know elites mock,
It’s osmosis that does it—well, that and our prayers.
And Joe Biden sees New Jersey from his shore.
And that’s just a state. That doesn’t rate. It’s me who knows the score.
On a clear day,
On a clear day,
I see Vladivostok …
And Novosibirsk …
And Krasnoyarsk …
And Novokuznetsk …
And Omsk …
And Tomsk …
And more!
2008
ROD BLAGOJEVICH
Illinois Governor
On the Auctioning Off of Barack Obama’s Senate Seat
It seemed to Rod Blagojevich
A powerful appointment which
Was his to make should make him rich.
His plan turned out to have a glitch.
Perhaps the feds had flipped a snitch.
So much for Rod Blagojevich.
2008
ARLEN SPECTER
Pennsylvania Senator
The Defection of Arlen Specter
Voilà, a GOP defector!
He’s unbeloved Arlen Specter—
As kindly as a rent collector
Or Hannibal, the hungry Lecter.
(Remember when we watched him hector
Anita Hill, so he’d deflect her
From Thomas sniffing her as nectar?)
The Dems say, “Welcome to our sector.
Obama now is your protector.”
A vote’s a vote.
2009
BARACK OBAMA
President of the United States
Obama’s Temper
His calm, say the pundits, is not the right mode.
To look like a leader he’ll have to explode.
The man has to demonstrate more of an id.
For that there is nothing like flipping your lid.
That’s right: What they say is to get Big Mo back
Obama should contemplate blowing his stack.
According to them, what could help him the most’ll
Be some sort of sign that he’s finally gone postal.
2010
JOHN BOEHNER
Speaker of the House
An Optimist Greets the New Speaker
It’s true for greed this has to be a gainer
(To lobbyists John Boehner’s on retainer).
Can anything be said for Speaker Boehner?
Yes. Others in the party are insaner.
2010
CHRIS CHRISTIE
New Jersey Governor, Potential Presidential Candidate
Contemplating the Republican Presidential Field, Late-Night Comics Lament
So Trump is out. We’ve lost our best buffoon—
We’ll surely miss that gaseous air balloon.
Oh sure, there’s Newt. Though Newt jokes once were great,
They’re getting old. He’s past his sell-by date.
Chris Christie was the one we hoped they’d draft.
Yes, in our fondest daydreams people laughed
As we eyed Christie’s body, fore and aft,
Comparing him to William Howard Taft.
But Christie has insisted he’ll not run.
Is anybody left who’s any fun?
Oh Lord, please hear our prayers. We’re on our knees.
At least just leave us Sarah Palin—please.
2011
NYC
“The New York term for what others might call a typical American or a real American is out-of-towner.”
Curtain Time
Murray Tepper was sitting at the wheel of a dark blue Chevrolet Malibu that was parked on the uptown side of Forty-third Street, between Fifth and Sixth. Behind him, a car was coming slowly down Forty-third Street. As it passed the imposing structure occupied by the Century club, it slowed even more, and, a few yards farther, came to a stop just behind Tepper’s Chevrolet. Taking his eyes away from the paper for only an instant, Tepper shot a quick glance toward his side mirror. He could see a Mercury with New Jersey license plates—probably theatergoers from the suburbs who knew that these streets in the forties were legal for long-term metered parking after six. The New Jersey people would be hoping to find a spot, grab a bite in a sushi bar or a deli, and then walk to the theater. Good planners, people from New Jersey, Tepper thought, except for the plan they must have hatched at some point to move to New Jersey. (The possibility that anybody started out in New Jersey—that any number of people had actually been born there—was not a possibility Tepper had ever dwelled on.) He pretended to concentrate on his newspaper, although he was, in fact, still thinking of the state of New Jersey, which he envisioned as a series of vast shopping-mall parking lots, where any fool could find a spot. The Mercury’s driver tapped his horn a couple of times, and then, getting no response, moved even with Tepper’s Chevy. The woman who was sitting on the passenger side stuck her head out of the window and said, “Going out?”
Tepper said nothing.
“Are you going out?” the woman asked again.
Tepper did not look up, but with his right hand he reached over toward the window and wagged his index finger back and forth, in the gesture some Southern Europeans have perfected as a way of dealing with solicitations from shoeshine boys or beggars. Tepper had been able to wag his finger in the negative with some authority since 1954, when, as a young draftee who regularly reminded himself to be grateful that at least the shooting had stopped, he spent thirteen miserable months as a clerk-typist in a motor pool in Pusan and had to ward off prostitutes and beggars every time he left the base. An acquaintance had once express
ed envy for the gesture as something that seemed quite cosmopolitan, but Tepper would have traded it in an instant for the ability to do the legendary New York taxi-hailing whistle that was accomplished by jamming a finger in each corner of the mouth.
He had never been able to master that whistle, despite years of patient coaching by a doorman named Hector, on West Eighty-third. Tepper had encountered Hector while looking for overnight parking spots in his own neighborhood, in the days before his wife managed to persuade him to take space for his car by the month in a multilevel garage a few blocks from their apartment. He hadn’t seen anybody use the fingers-in-the-mouth whistle on the street for a long time. He hadn’t tried it for a long time himself. Was it something that might simply come to him, after all these years? Now that he wasn’t trying it several evenings a week under the pressure of Hector’s watchful eye, might it just appear, the way a smooth golf swing sometimes comes inexplicably to duffers once the tension of their expensive lessons has ended? He was about to jam a couple of fingers in the corners of his mouth to see if the gift might have arrived unannounced when he realized that the Mercury was still idling next to him, making it necessary to remain focused on the newspaper.
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