Daschle, McCain,
Butler, Mandeville’s Bees, L’Estrange, Democracy, Iliad Revised, Angell, Mobolobocrazy,
Hudibras, Carter, Green PeanutsBoiled Peanuts,Directory
******
The Muse dictates that there is much to be said about peanuts of every kind:
Green; boiled; nuts in and out of the shell; even peanut butter made chunky or
fine.
But there’s another of which we must write,
Before the World Court, is brought this endite.
Another kind of nut comes from the red Georgia soil,
It’s a’festering sore like a sypillitic boil.
Put this nut in a group of Socialistic thinkers
And you’ve got yourself some world class tinkerers.
There’re dedicated to give all away,
That man has labored for, to this very day.
From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,
Is the basis of their Communistic Creed.
Give this nut a prize and pedestal on which to stand
And this goober begins to think he’s God’s gift to man.
He’ll infect others with the idea; take from other’s toil,
Regardless of consequences, to the needy goes the spoil.
From him comes this warped Baptist’s thought
Reopening wounds from battles lost, he has fought.
Make him a World Citizen and all can see
This nut’s cracked. What a real pity.
The skull’s a shell designed by nature to protect,
But there’s something inside this one, that we must suspect.
Cracked open to reveal the resident kernel,
You discover inside’s something that’s truly infernal.
The nut has within a musty poison harbored
Like an Aspergillus mold growing inward.
This human nut forgets; that is, if he ever knew,
Criticizing the homeland’s something you don’t do.
A measure of quality, character and/or propriety
Are all lacking, in his reach for destiny.
Don’t blame the Georgia farmer or the vine
That produced this nut we happened to find.
Elected to Governor and then President,
He had the people’s trust in any event.
When tested by Clerics, he was found to be without guts.
He and his friends were simply, shall we say, nuts.
They were found to be eunuchs in dealing with matters
So, were all retired to the peanut patch, this bunch of mad hatters.
His inane musings are what we now hear,
A bit like the town drunk, deep in his beer.
Talking nonsense about that which he knows nothing
He remains a red-neck country bumpkin.
****
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