Sunday, October 10, 2004

A Week in the Life of Bob Novak, as written in His Diary by Himself, an Epic Saga told in Thirteen Parts

Day 2: Second Debate ruminations: Confronting Megalomania

Breakfast: Waffles, cream, a cherry. Things are hairy now with Kerry.

As I munch I cogitate upon the late evening debate.

Don't tell a soul, dear diary, but truthfully we all can see the full extent of lunacy.

A madness measured out with bombs and Abu Ghraibs, not cups of tea

At the start george looked quite smart, and only really fell apart when queries

came in twos and threes like turbothrusted buzzy bees,

Diminishing his sense of ease and ruining the luster of his furi-ocious bluster.

Darn those pesky town-hall forums! Leadership's not built on quorums.

These folk were flustering W's filbustering. Erratic grew his posturing, and some imagined: pasturing.

Although quite small, our George stood tall with expectations low

Advering in a fevered fervor that Iraq led the attack

Upon the U.S. in September. Much like a gardner with his rake he sought to rake up yellowcake--that fake cake I once helped him bake.

George waded in, was getting warm, aided in debating form

By shocks administered remotely, aimed to spur the thoughts inchoately

Murmuring unfully-formed in spits and spurts

From probes emplaced below his shirts.

This simple pocket ticker helped our Georgie to deliver licks without too many facial tics.

The shape observed on George’s back was not a special ear device

Or other wiring implement for Rove-to-president advice. Instead the goal was,

just in spots, to trim and splice the jumbled thoughts

Which, moving South from brain to mouth might lose their way amid the draughts.

A simple D-Cell battery propelled the nicest smattering of Kerry anti-flattery.

A litany of Kerry faults were thus impelled with sturdy jolts. And who's to say
that politics are less electrical, today?

Its true, a time or too George lost his glue.

Made too much of timber, body parts all agitating,

Got all pokey, shoulder-jerky, slap me down and call me smirky

Hearkened back to Scott, Mein Gott!

How poorly can we use the dead,

To mangle what Dred Scott once said?