Hillary Clinton - Secretary of Fun

(From time to time, I like to dabble in poetry. Most of it's ridiculous, but all of it rhymes - which is pretty much the only thing that matters when it comes to poetry, in this poet's opinion. This week, Hillary Clinton is my muse. Last time, it was Sarah Palin. And next time? Probably something to do with fantasy football.)

Photo: AOL News

Hillary, Dillary, Dickery, Dock.
Your husband Bill can't control his....

Wait a minute. Too crude. Let me start that one over.

Here we go:

Hillary Clinton, Obama's new friend.
You'll stick by his side till the bitter end.
But you dream of two-thousand twelve while in bed.
Visions of Presidency still dance in your head.

Barry just named you Secretary of State,
While Bubba Bill was out on a date.
His penis has a mind of its own.
Foreign policy skills, you now must hone.

You'll move to Washington with belongings in tow.
Seeds of worldwide diplomacy you will soon sow.
And as Sean Penn plays the famous Harvey Milk.
You too must portray one of a respectable ilk.

I'm not saying to be the first gay Secretary of State.
But rather to emulate and copy some of the greats.
Like Tommy Jefferson or the first one, John Jay.
And William Henry Steward, or John Milton Hay.

There's Hamilton Fish, who had a funny name.
Or Philander Chase Knox - that first name is a shame.
And many, many others who I may or may not list.
Hill, do you remember the first boy you kissed?

It probably wasn't Bill cause he wasn't no prince.
In high school I could see you with a Chuck or a Vince.
Go back to that time, when you were young and so free.
And enter this new job with the same sense of glee.

Don't forget to emulate Daniel Webster or John Calhoun.
And also find out if we really put a man on the moon.
Conspiracy theorists are making me wonder.
If Armstrong's first steps were false, it will tear my world asunder.

I guess that's my problem, and really not yours.
Maybe I'll see you while on one of those White House tours.
Where's your new office? West Wing or South?
And if you see Dick Cheney, please punch him in the mouth.

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A Poem for Palin

Ladies love many things in this world – chocolate, babies, puppies, and diamonds come to mind immediately.

But perhaps more than anything else, ladies love poetry. And recognizing this indisputable fact, I decided to write a poem for Alaska Governor Sarah Palin - as the McCain-Palin team hurtles towards irrelevance. I figured she may need something to cheer her up in the weeks and months ahead, especially during those long Alaskan winters.

Sarah's Smile:

Oh Sarah, your smile shines so bright like the snow.
Track, Trig, Bristol, Piper, and Willow.
Those are your kids’ names, a sense of humor you have.
During research for this poem, I learned a baby moose is a calf.


Evolution is bad, but abortions are worse.
I think you once said that Russia’s a curse.
You’re referring to Putin, and not Russia itself.
Please tell John McCain, “Leave those nukes on the shelf.”


This point though is moot, you two likely will lose.
Recent polls show 80% of Americans love your shoes.
That’s a really great thing, you should be very proud.
Nice shoes, pretty hair, and folksy words draw a crowd.


But it’s time to look forward to twenty-sixteen.
In the meantime stay friendly, not crotchety and mean.
Like McCain that old hero, gunning for President for years.
I can see why he’s mad, he should drink many beers.


And whiskey as well, to drown out the sorrow.
For your votes he will steal, lie, beg or borrow.
So will that other guy, Barack something or other.
John McCain still has to report to his mother.


She’s a hundred and ten, or something crazy like that.
The oldest known lady to wear a Budweiser hat.
Given to her by Cindy, who’s the calmest of calm.
I’ve never seen her blink, and I’ve never seen her Mom.


But who cares about that, Sarah? ‘Cause this poem’s all for you.
And sweet Todd’s in the kitchen, preparing moose stew.
So even if you lose, you’ll still be fed and full.
Doggone it, shucks, Joe Six-pack, wolf hunting and home school.

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Ode To Beer: Redux

The crackling cap lifts from the lip.

A sizzling slide of golden amber.

Suds down the side of a fancy glass.

So cold. Fresh. Bitter. Smooth.

A biting cold. A sprinkle of snow down your neck.

Excuse me miss, how old are you?

Twenty-two, yet still with braces.

And only four foot ten.

But yet, this card says your age. And says it all.

I see here you’re from Maine.

The land of 10,000 lakes.

Or something like that.

I haven’t a clue.

Ten beers gone by.

Like a bygone high school daze.

In the dark dank alleyway.

No smoking inside. It’s the law.

What say you Officer?

Yes, she’s with me.

A fake? Who’s a fake?

What’s a fake?

Fake this! A flight to safety!

But no.

Too slow.

The blunt cold concrete.

The faint essence of urine.

It’s all you sense. With a knee in your back.

Suspect immobilized.

The pain is dull. A throbbing dread.

She’s talking to the cop.

He’s taking notes.

Thank you beer.

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