Thursday, February 12, 2004
Saddam Hussein & Sandra Day O’Connor
When first I saw you in your robe of black,
I knew then I had seen my bunker bust,
Without you, through my soul blows desert dust,
I knew I couldn’t fight sweet love’s attack.
Some statues to you—I will build a stack!
A testament to unveiled woman’s lust,
I’ll do whate’er our courtship deems is just,
And even let you stab my double’s back.
Have evil cards been dealt inside my brain?
Or maybe I’ve just got a Sandy heart,
From all this arid, tasteless, beige terrain.
This Sunni day I’ll make a brand new start,
I’ll live with spiders, ticks, and even Kurds,
Who needs Allah’s sweet Virgins; I’ve your words!
My little Hussy, you are so divine,
My little pussy loves your every stroke,
It feels like spiders tickling when you poke,
I love your hidey hole, and you love mine!
Don’t ever let those Bush hogs call you “swine,”
You are not evil, nor are you a joke
Because your bunkers all went up in smoke,
And Haliburton grabbed your bottom line.
That bottom they can’t hold, it’s oh-so-tight!
And squeezing it is my right, it’s not theirs.
It’s just my constitution, made to fight
For everything for which a woman cares.
Just give your foes the gas; it’s oil I hunt.
We’ll slip and slide with it, and moan and grunt.
* * *
Sylvester Stallone & Meryl Streep
Yo, Streep! I like your acting, I say, Yo!
I like your foreign accents. I can’t do
Them, But I surely can say Yo to you,
Your acting is so good, it’s just like, Yo!
I’m not a man of many words, I know,
Or many roles for what that’s worth; ’tis true,
But I got biceps, pecs, tight tush, and Whew!
Yes! So do you. I mean your tush, it’s Yo!
So Streep! Yo, Yo, and Yo some more, and Yo,
Those accents and that tush, and acting, Yo!
Oh, let me shoot my Uzi, watch it spurt;
I’ll blow up bad guys; you I’ll never hurt.
And then I’ll say to you not Yo, but, Yoa!
And you can be my dear Meryl Balboa!
Oh sweet my dearest, you’re so buff and Sly,
You surely punch my lights out when we hump,
You are my choice, (that Sophie’s just a frump),
Those Rockies in your shorts will make me cry!
I love the way your enemies all die.
I’ll writhe upon your ammunition dump,
We’ll feel exploding ordnance as you pump,
We’ll shoot together, then we’ll idly lie.
They say that you can’t act, it’s only grunts.
I grunt, too. (I do all my acting stunts).
Those Eberts don’t know accents from first base,
I think we need to get them off our case:
With AK-47s we can blast,
Then, glove in glove, our love will Ever last!
* * *
Laura Bush & Kim Jong-Il
The U.N. must be fooled, your hubby, too,
(How did you get tied up with such a clod?)
He’s just a bogus sheriff with no bod,
And rather short on hair (my humble view).
In terrorism he has not a clue,
He fears I’ll bait him with a fission rod,
When all I’ll really do is shoot my wad
And radiate my glory into you!
Will U.N. nations ask him to desist,
Or has he placed his rod in where it hurts?
Big weapon systems he just can’t resist,
Whereas my weapons are just little squirts.
He thinks he’s powerful and really tall,
Though he is but a cuckold, that is all!
Kimmy, Kimmy, Kim; or is it Jong?
It makes me Il to not know which name’s first,
But I will learn for you, or I’ll just burst,
I love you dearest, whether right or wrong.
They say you’re short, but I know you are long,
And also big around, like German wurst,
And all those Occidentals should be cursed
And my George, too, for sanctions way too strong.
Oh, let them laugh and joke about your hair:
“Without that hair, he’s barely even there.”
What ever can George know of those swift strands,
His sensitivity’s just in his glands,
And though not French, it’s really plain to see,
Those locks of yours can surely tickle me!
* * *
Arnold Schwarzenegger & Hillary Clinton
Ah, Jah, Maria iss a pain to see,
Those sunken cheeks like Jacko’s, vhat a sight!
And, Jah, that voice that quacks all through the night,
On CBS, or iss it NBC?
I vant, I need, to grasp someone and flee,
And you’fe the bottom shaped exactly right,
A trifle flabby, maybe; that’s alright,
One cannot live on diets all fat-free!
And you, a Senator, Jah, it’s so grand,
With me now Governor we’ll make a stand,
Your Bill iss just a cigar wielding fool
Who doesn’t have control of his small tool.
But even if you can’t become my vife,
Pleasse help me pump my iron all my life!
My Arnold, you are such a joy to me,
While doing push-ups over top my breast,
And groping me with such an earnest zest.
A one-man health plan, and so sweetly free!
In California, on that calming sea,
Or in New York, where all my stock is blessed,
I love to lie with you, and be caressed,
And when you groan, I moan in ecstasy.
But what of all those groupies that you squeeze?
I’d make you stop; but who cares, what the hell!
Bill had a bimbo village on its knees,
But spun things so the press won’t ask, or tell.
My running with you, though, will hit a snag
Unless you terminate that Shriver hag!
* * *
Pope John Paul II & Anna Nicole Smith
I confess, sweet Nun, you bring back spring!
You have an ever overrunning cup,
And though I can no longer get it up,
(An agèd cross I bear! This useless thing!)
I’ll kiss your coozie, still. You’ll kiss my ring,
And pamper me like I’m your favorite pup.
Our last encounter will be quite a sup,
We’ll eat, drink wine, then genuflect and sing.
And when I’m dead I want to help you cope,
Those Bishop pricks be damned! I’ll still be Pope
Until those Card’nals blow out all their smoke.
I’ll spread some Papal Bull, and that’s no joke,
Declaring you Popette, and Virgin, too!
That Mass of jealous fools can cry, Boo Hoo!
I long to be your Mary Magdalene,
Or Virgin Mary might be better yet
Considering you’re broken bone won’t set,
And I can’t kiss you with those clergymen
All lurking ’round our little Vatican.
I know you long to hug, and want to pet
Those Heav’nly places, but you then forget.
Just reassure and bless me now and then.
It must be Purgatory for you, Sweet,
To know there can be no small patt’ring feet,
But you’ve God’s children, you must watch them well
And see that none of them will go to Hell.
I’ll simply hang with you ’til you expire—
No matter that your candle’s lost its fire.