Colloquy

God Almighty, Lord of Hosts,
bored with heaven’s azure coast

remarked to Satan, who agreed,
“A camping trip is what I need.”

So though conditions were severe,
He pitched His tent in Georgie’s ear,

and Georgie’s tail began to wag
as God unrolled His sleeping bag;

George was feeling pretty good:
he offered God some firewood,

already cut and stacked nearby,
but God had things to clarify:

“George, you’ve made a proper mess,
as even you can see, I guess.

We’d all be better off if you
could give up sniffing airplane glue.”

George gave his rosy butt a shake,
for he was not the man to take

such criticism lying down.
He frowned his most important frown:

“What you think is not my lookout.
Just enjoy your little cookout;

leave the leadership to me.
It’s for the best, I guarantee:

we’re better off without Saddam,
even if we’re in a jam;

Dick and Wolfie told me so,
and they’re the gentlemen who know.”

The Lord considered this a bit:
“George...Wolfowitz is full of it,

and Cheney’s Satan’s favorite son;
they’ll kill us all before they’re done,

Wolfowitz with his computer,
ditto Dick, plus he’s a shooter,

a very special kind of louse
who slays domesticated grouse;

the psychosexual implications
beggar My imagination.

The feeble twats who work your will
you picked for sycophantic skills;

they tell you what you want to hear;
in that at least they have no peer.

We all know where Rummy started:
sucking up what Nixon farted.

Later he embraced Hussein,
helped him build his poison rain.

At least we know why you were certain
what was under Saddam’s curtain.

Poison gas and bombs and guns,
we sent them over by the ton,

and Reagan, with demented zeal
dispatched our Don to cop a feel.

And Condaleeza'll burn in hell
for serving you so very well;

like many other prostitutes
she’s selling lies and sexy boots;

one can only wonder whether
you prefer the lies, or leather.

Gonzales too, that rotten tooth:
the Prince of Torture and Untruth,

the coward’s coward you pretend
was and is your bosom friend,

a fact which, were it really true,
says less of Berto than of you.

All your people, all your picks;
it’s Chinese Death--a thousand pricks.

The only one who’s worse than these
is you, Ace. The Decider? Please...

George, it’s time for you to go.
Go back to Texas. Cop some blow.

Chop some bushes. Be a man.
You’ve done everything you can.

Let us fix the mess you’ve made;
have the decency to fade,

like old soldiers always do,
though that’s a stretch, applied to you.

I mean it, George. I hate to push,
but don’t forget the burning bush.”