Wicked Wednesday Meets Throwback Thursday

One of the pleasures of having built up a body of written work over the years is scrolling about in the Documents section and finding forgotten masterpieces.  OK, maybe not masterpieces - but things that I had fun writing.  This is a little gem from that day period of American history known as the Dubya Years.  I was writing a collection of children's verse à la Roald Dahl about Awful Adults - the Dentist, the Creepy Soccer Coach, the Evil Substitute Teacher - when it occurred to me that the most Awful Adult of them all was in charge of running the country.  Here, without further ado, is my ode to the George W. Bush era.

Our Country’s Leader

Our teacher, Mrs. Futter, sent

A letter to the President.

And therefore, she is taking us

To visit him upon the bus.

We pull up at the White House gate

And there is a protracted wait;

They make us all take off our shoes

And ask if anyone has booze.

We’re poked and frisked by six inspectors

And prodded through metal detectors.

And now, we’re in the White House.  Wow.

We go, “So, are we leaving now?

“What do you mean?” cries Mrs. Futter.

Her voice becomes a strangled sputter –

“Our President!” she croaks.  We push,

We crane our necks – we stare.  There’s Bush!

Our eyes pop, for our Prez is wearing

An army helmet, and he’s bearing

A basket full of plastic guns.

He hollers, “You must be the ones

Who’re here today to play ‘Iraq’!

These are the rules.  I’ll say ‘Attack!’

I’m gonna give you each a gun –

Boy! Are we gonna have some fun!”

I’m thinking, “Help!  Our President

Should really be a resident

Of Bellevue.  Geez, the guy is nuts!”

Then Bush leaps up.  He runs and shuts

The double door, and we are trapped.

Is this a nightmare?  Have I napped

Too long?  Please, tell me it’s not real!

But no.  He waves his gun with zeal

And shouts, “Weapons of mass destruction

Are in Iraq!  It’s my deduction

That war will lead to reconstruction

Of my financial state.  Obstruction

Makes you a traitor to the cause!”

There is a lengthy, pregnant pause.

We look around.  Can we get out? 

But then our leader starts to pout.

He yells, “If you won’t play with me,

You’ll all be sorry – wait and see!”

“All right, all right!” we say. “We’ll play!”

He grabs Monique and yells, “Hooray!

Okay, Saddam, I’ve captured you!”

Monique looks horrified as two

Large G-men grab her by the arm.

They drag her out, and our alarm

Is growing.  What will he do next?

For now our President looks vexed.

He scowls and mutters, “I’m afraid,

That someone stole my hand grenade!

And when I find out which of you

Is the repulsive stinker who

Has done it, I’ll be plungin’

Your sorry ass into a dungeon.”

Then Mrs. Futter finds her voice –

She says, “You leave me little choice.

Although I harbor deep respect

For government, I must object!

I fear that it would not be prudent

For us to leave without a student.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bush yells.  “You can go first!

‘Cause everybody knows the worst

Liberal traitors work in schools!

You think Republicans are fools?”

He buzzes, and the G-man geek

Drags Futter off to join Monique.

So now, we’re getting really scared –

The presidential brain’s impaired.

He rubs his hands.  “So!  Let’s play war!

There’s nothing quite as nice as gore!

I don’t mean Al – I pity schnooks

Who spend their lifetimes reading books.”

He glares at us.  “You’re in fifth grade.

Don’t tell me that your teacher made

You read.  I’m glad that she’s in jail!”

We see his loony eyes and quail.

“Oh, man!” I think.  “We need to leave!”

I look at my best buddy, Steve

And try to tell him with my eyes

“We have to take Bush by surprise!”

He nods.  My buddy Steve is brave –

I see his hand begin to wave.

He says, “Uh – Mr. President?

You know, a soldier needs a tent.

Let’s go out on the White House lawn,

Put up some tents, and then at dawn

We’ll be all rested, fit, and ready

To grab our guns and hold them steady.

We’ll save those oil fields, just you wait.”

Bush beams at us.  He hollers, “Great!”

He opens up the double door

And right away starts frowning, for

There stands the guy who took Monique

With two long scratch-marks down his cheek.

He whimpers, “Boss, it’s not my fault!

I tried to stick her in the vault!

The kid fought like a trained guerilla –

I mean, the girl is a Godzilla!”

Bush answers with great irritation

“Well, never mind right now.  The nation

Depends on us to tame that beast

That some folks call the Middle East.”

“Yes, Sir!” Steve snaps with a salute.

“And all us kids are now in boot

Camp. Let us hear your orders!”

“Terrific!”  Bush yells.  “Storm the borders!”

We cheer like mad, and then we race

To the secluded parking place

Where last we saw our yellow bus.

We bang the door.  Our driver, Gus

Opens it up and says “Your friend

Monique is crouched down at the end

Behind the seats.  She won’t say why.”

We tell him, “Thanks, Gus.  Look – no lie –

We’re good to go – Ms. Futter’d rather

Walk school.  She says don’t bother

Waiting, ’cause she thinks her thighs

Could use a little exercise."

Gus revs the motor. “Okey-doke!”

We take off in a cloud of smoke;

And though our bus burns too much gas

And as we leave the grounds, we pass

Our teacher, who begins to wail

And cry, “Don’t make me go to jail!”

And though our country’s being shafted –

At least we have escaped un-drafted.