by Patrick Clark
Torn by the winds of passion and lost in the fog of war,
the following haikus fluttered over the Rose Garden hedges
and were recovered by everyday Americans like you and me who,
undaunted by terror, were going about their lives of unchecked
consumerism. Following several days of spell checking, we’ve
deduced that the original documents were definitely written
in English. Further research has led us to believe that these
poems though whiskey-stained and crayon-scrawled
are the work of none other than that venerable wordsmith,
George W. Bush himself.
No doubt it is surprising to some to find that it is actually
the form of the haiku-rather than the dirty limerick- that
the President prefers. On reflection, however, it is only
natural that the spartan purity of the haiku’s five-seven-five
lines appeal to our Whitehouse Gary Cooper, a man comfortable
with few words and even less meaning. Indeed, these simple
pieces do much to convey the gruff tenderness of the plain-spoken
West Texan trapped inside the body of a heartless corporate
Here are brave, elegant lines, bursting with an unencumbered
love of money and power that a lesser man might deny. Here
is the smug sanctimony of a recovering drunk, the pious zeal
of a former addict unafraid to look into the eyes of a nation-
and lie. Here, in simplistic celebration, is the autobiographical
musing of a man who has lollygagged in the harness of mediocrity,
slobbered on the dung heap of stupidity, snorted from the
mirror of excess, and drunk deep from the well of-well- from
whatever well drink was on special that night. You get the
It is said that Nero amused himself with fiddling as ancient
Rome went up in flames. We find it soothing to think that
even as the President burns through the economy faster than
a trust fund check in Boystown, he is commemorating himself
and these epic days in such magnificent, magnificent verse.
Santa Claus was wrong.
He heard, “President” but missed
Me saying “of Baseball.”
Skull and Bones was nice
But I liked cheerleading best.
Me. Pompoms. The team.
It’s not so easy
Defending the skies of Texas.
Damn that urine test!
Muslims get virgins:
When I die I hope to go
Heck, what’s so bad about it?
I made my money.
A Juarez hooker
Taught me everything I know
I wear cowboy boots
And own a ranch but never
Seem to ride a horse.
It was near six years
Before anyone taught me
How to spell Governor.
I will not have sex.
Who needs issues? I repeat,
I will not have sex.
I’ve brought dignity
Back to the Whitehouse, they say.
Carl and Laura both.
That dirty, lowdown
I’ll get you, Jeffords!
When danger threatens
And evil attacks, leaders
Run to Nebraska.
I told them bastards,
A carpet of gold- or bombs.
I told them bastards!
Run Osama Bin!
You spoiled religious freak! Now,
‘Mercans are asking
All these questions ‘bout Enron.
Oh, look! We’re at war!
Ari, I love you.
When your lips move the media
Sighs and turns away.
Dick is a meanie.
I cannot call Kenny Boy
“Kenny Boy” again.
Poppy had this job.
So although he trades arms now
I do what he says.
Is the best defense, Carl says.
I’m too dumb to lie!
I can’t spell impeach.
And if I can’t spell something,
It can’t happen, right?
It wasn’t truthful
That pretzel choking story-
Dad, Dick bitch-slapped me.
The author is a carpenter in Colorado. He believes politicians
should be reintroduced to an hourly wage.