This one’s a dim one whose views you hear—
Got a nitwit mind-bog all unclear,
With relentless and senseless and gibbering jive.
Harpy’s high hair’s in a beehive.
And yet she wonders why so many jeer
And wonder if perhaps she ain’t near smart.
With Couric she didn’t come off bright,
But that contestation was only the start.
Her cerebral power just isn’t in sight.
Dunce is this scam; loony is she,
But damn! she knows how to accrue money.
I’ve seen greater intellect in farm
Cows that ruminate better, have more charm.
Whenever she speaks, she is muffin’ more
Facts than O’Reilly—that’s no small chore!
Though she’s a loon, I have gotta say:
She has defenders who waste their pay
To hear her, and then they get real sore
When her falsehoods are brought to the fore
By folks who know what’s really the score.
To Wikipedia, myrmidons hied—
“Don’t hassle us with the facts!” they cried.
Site’s sullied with shite that accretes.
A “teachable moment”. . .not, I fear;
“Our c--t, right or wrong!” is their Shurzesque* cheer.
She most recently opened her mouth; out poured
A sound from which truths were in retreats.
This time her gaffes were about Paul Revere,
Though she’s been wrong many times before.
But we have John McCain to thank—what a jerk:
He put in the limelight this airhead
Who from her house saw the Reds, she said.
First came the wink, and then came the smirk,
And the north Midwest accent when she brayed.
The whole thing was a big charade,
But soon she had many sheep in thrall—
She’s P.T. Barnum in drag, that’s all.
She’s hauled down from some obscure small town
By the “maverick” who’s now a clown.
So, thanks, old man—what a bad call!
In a tweet, “refudiate,” she pled;
When folks refuted the gaffe, her shrill
Response was, “I am just like Will,
Coining words,” The Bard of Wasilla said.
Speaking of The Bard, ’twas he who lent
Us a phrase that for her is meant;
The one I’ll cite; we all know it well;
It befits this twit—RE: tales she’ll tell.
It comes from “Macbeth,” in which the king said,
As he was contemplating with dread,
These famous words; this is how they went:
“It is a tale,” the speech starts this way,
“Told by an idiot” (one astray),
“Full of sound and fury (who emotes),
“Signifying nothing” (from hand-wrote notes).
So now we have learned that Revere’s ride
Was to warn the British? I have tried
To parse her statement that’s about as clear
As a ultra-dunkel unfiltered beer.
Of semantic sense, there’s a dearth,
Seeming nix to come from planet earth,
Making for much merriment and mirth.
She sounded as if she had downed a pill
That had caused her an out-of-this-world thrill
That caused sixties kids to shout, “Outta sight!”
When they thought that they had seen the light.
It made their minds addled as on they were turned,
For in truth, their thoughts were dark as the night,
And from their babbling, nothing was learned.
For clarity, LSD isn’t sweet
Her Wasilliness seemed set by such a spark.
Trying to glean meaning, I was still in the dark
After many attempts I admitted defeat—
I was stalled at more loony semantic blight.
This stuff was taken beyond recondite—
It was so obscure, it was a parser’s plight;
Even a semiotician would be beat.
When it comes to meaning, her thoughts are as deep
And as clear as mud through which shoes does seep
When you try slogging through a bog outside,
After you have left the cover of sedge
And ventured beyond the scented muck’s edge.
To comprehend I have tried—ken denied.
From politicians, expect schlock;
You can’t keep a bought-off panderer down.
Of shit you’re gonna get a crock
As they’re barking all, like rabid dogs
And what they bawl is like rancid logs:
The reds and blues are dishing out brown.
Their care for our affairs, mock talk.
But galling crocks call on lexicon;
I understand them when they talk,
Though at what they say I’m aghast,
There is a linear thread in what they blare,
So I can get from here to there,
Ken what these men and women say has passed.
What she passes off is a vexing con;
You’ve a clue if you’re fixed on Fox?
It’s a shame she don’t stay in that tundra town
Still, keeping her bleating to flocks
Of caribou that she can bring to knees
With a Glock or Mauser trigger squeeze.
But jerkoff John brought her renown.
Her mind’s asleep, but for mining of bread
From the fools who follow her in thrall.
For that goal she can use her head—
That and goad on the troops to squall,
Who roam the land like a group of undead
Whose hew comes on cue and whose hue is red.
That’s the Commie color, I recall.
I guess irony escapes them all.
Chasing the Redcoats down the lane
Was Paul Revere, he of Longfellow fame,
Who said to them, “Fellows, I have a load
Of info: know, you’re gonna be mowed,
Your ass is grass; you heard it here:
There’s a badass bunch: pre-Bay State boys who’s armed,
And, yes, these kids’ll vex ya; be alarmed
By this news and the bells I’m ringing. Cheers!”
That, I believe, is the story she bore
To the world in this word salad about yore.
Just more of this shite wind—blasted gas
From interchangeable mouth and ass.
Through the power of media, at light speed,
Some people taken in; some hiss and jeer
The worrisome drumbeat that’s decreed
By the dim-light messenger, all unclear.
*“Our country, right or wrong.”—Missouri Sen. Carl Shurz (1829-1906)