the holy retribution of Tom Delay

One night while in his boudoir scheming
Tom Delay lay dreaming, dreaming
Of a day of wondrous burning
When the world would reel, learning
How perilous, a Delay spurning

Imagining that holy fire,
Trembled Tom with crude desire
Oh the glorious sacred blaze!
Oh the Whoosh as lit the pyre!
Beneath the gathered angels’ gaze,
Dark would gape a dreadful gyre.

High would scream and plead the fools
Who thought to risk the Hammer’s ire.
One by one into the fire;
Cast by angels bright and cold
From there into the yawning gyre,
(Even Gingrich, small and bold)

Shivered Tom in ecstasy;
Most awfulest of reckonings!
Surely Shays would try to flee;
From the angels’ beckonings
Yet Shays like all the rest would roast
Marshmallows for Tom’s angelic host
Sacre bleu! A Righteous toast.