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Surrounded by his burning wreck, Oblivious to smoke, With weary leer, a "What the heck", He gave the fire a poke. A tragic figure, there he stood Brush cutters in his hand. Born to rule as best he could, Things hadn't gone as planned. The flames approached; he couldn't leave Until he got the word. No longer laughing up his sleeve, But still he hadn't heard. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he cried out loud, "What else could I have done? We figured Condi's mushroom cloud Would snooker ev'ryone. "Was it my fault that Rummy tried To be a modern Spartan? Who knew the spread of suicide Would challenge Clara Barton? "Ask Daddy if I stay the course, Must flames be my reward? Why didn't a mere show of force Convert them to Our Lord? "Tell Daddy, as his Second Son, I shoudn't be held liable. I've made it clear to ev'ry one That I believe The Biable. "Dick Cheney pointed out to me, Before his final stroke, That in Iraq democracy Would be our little joke. "So why name me, a Son of God, As this war's prime suspect? Mommy's always found me flawed, Her 4F draft reject. "My legacy! My legacy! Whatever will folks think? That man evolved from chimpanzee And I'm the missing link?"
Original Verse by Felicia Dorothea Heman |