OBAMA AT THE ST.REGIS
If I can sort things out I can find a straight path to a crooked target. Arrows get caught in my sideburns. I am heady.
I am a brain banished from ceremonial attention. I evaporate because I am afraid to stay within your obdurate posture.
I come and I go talking of no, no, no. I am not Michelangelo. I am a pumpkin.
You are Cinderella in my carriage. I put a glass slipper on your slippage. You break a leg for good luck in acting.
Are you playing a role or do you really love me? We had lunch at the St. Regis Hotel for the five hundredth time. I like repetition. I hate change.
The reason that I didn’t vote for Obama is because of his mantra, “Change.” Forward is the inability to keep emotionally close to what is behind. Repetition is growth. I want to stay where I am.
When the President eats at the St. Regis he brings four of his own chefs. I have this on good account. Perhaps he knows that change is poison. America is the last bastion of celebratory consistency.
Obama’s change is America’s demise. We were so much better before he tried to revamp us. He is not too bright. He is a lightbulb without a filament.
His character has failed content. His content has failed character. MLK knows the drift.
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