Impeach the President

Oxymoronic Leader of the Free World
With born-again shields erected
Your version of Teflon
To reflect the revilement
Abounding for you
Lear had daughters too
And more importantly
The Fool
How desperately you need
The wise Jester in these times
But do not pretend to royalty
Do not retire to the heath
For your pitiful version of mad wailing
You are but a soulless Joker
Too empty for true madness
The Fool would tell you:
Madness cannot be true nothing
And vacancy defines you
As you will the fear
Down upon our heads
When you drop terror
Upon the Afghans and Iraqis
Crosses over crescents
Biblical interpretation balance sheets
Fossils fuel divine retribution
Humvees become luxury transportation
You deliver the emptiest of messages
We can sell anything
We will sell everything
Thomas More warned the zealot:
When you’ve cut down all the trees
To expose the devil
Where will you take shelter
When he turns on you?
(when you realize the devil as self construction)
But you have trouble reading children’s books
And negotiating the neocon agenda at the same time
(as documented for all time by Moore)
So you turn to the staged TV cameras
In your oval office
With the face of someone
Who knows they’re up
Way past their bedtime
Your anti vestal visage
Idiotic and smug simultaneously
Turning stomachs nightly
Reinventing the language of war
(yes, we know you had help)
Shock and awe and surge
Trying to appropriate ideology
As your own term of goodness
Another brand to market your war
The post-Fahrenheit 911 certainty
Of your imminent demise
That became the ongoing nightmare
Of your cockroach like tenacity
Joe McCarthy chuckles
Cold terror wrapped in a flag
Unwitnessed body bags
And managed news reports
Clever like a Fox
School yard bully tactics
Cut and run taunts
In a second hand Air Force jump suit
(your AWOL fancy dress)
Iran in queue
The cynical use of the Promised Land
Illusion of security
And short term oil profits
A cowboy song
Orchestrated from Rancho Mirage
Falling off your Pinto
With a loaded shotgun
Watching your dogs dig for bugs
I’m almost too sick
To move
But move we must
All together now
Invert your clownish cynicism
And make the streets danceable
Again.