Archive
07/23/08
Praise Jesus's Rats and Meeces to Pieces! Now is the hour for all good city meeces To come to the aid of their fellow vermin in waiting And country-cousin fat-cat rats.
How could I possibly intuit this arcane truth, Divine this obscure bit of nonconventional wisdom, This little-known tidbit nibble off the Limburger wheel?
Well you might ask, in your deepest throes of agitation, As two-hundred-plus years of American history Is fixin' to go up in Lexington-and-Concord smoke
(Smoke-and-mirrors vector droppings, that is), Thanks to our King Georgie Porgie Pigeon/Pork Potpie III — Dubya, that raving, "nucularized" pretender —
As he imagines his moronic "To Hell with the Chief" exit, In which he departs the stage, not left or right, But through a trapdoor leading to a guillotine in the Tower,
Where a ravenous blade waits to decapitate his shriveled penis, Dice and slice it, with a Popeil's Ronco Vegematic, Then send it, to the Government Faith-Based Printing Office,
To turn it into sacred-papyrus reading matter Fit for a yet-adoring, illiterate Republican public: Brother Oral Anal's Gnostic Gospels for Dummies.
Tonight, I can feel it, in my pumped-up blood — That evangelical, Pentecostal, snake-handling call To all fleeing-the-sinking-ship rats and meeces,
That Fallwellian call to do the Lord's bidding, Profess that Jesus is come into my down-and-out life, Has shown me the light, made me a believer, righteous, Popeiled,
Certain that all my needs will be taken care of, Under the promise that when the end of days do descend, My rodent soul will be saved from damnation, tarnation.
Praise Jesus! Praise Gawd's one and only Son! Praise all the accumulated bat guano in my rat's nest! Praise the beginning and the end of America's free lunch!
And if you possibly can, Mr. Jesus P. Christ on a Crutch, Send me packing, to a rathole back in Crawford, Tejas, Where I might dynamite that bastard Georgie P. P. P. Potpie,
Who's done everything, in his bobodaciously evil power, To shit all over this country's august institutions And wipe his saddle-chapped ass with its Constitution.
And if you can't, dear Lawd, at least listen to my prayers And let Prairie Chapel Ranch Get stampeded by mad-cow-diseased rats and meeces.
07/23/08
|
|||
|
|||
