Go Back to Bed, Obama
A girl at Gleason’s Boxing Gym is wearing a T-shirt—
Obama, the drama,
Strutting like a broken footed llama in the Andes
Of his lies.
Obama is the absence of plot in a dance of characters.
He is the play within the play that fails to have the conscience
Of a king.
Hamlet was betrayed by Claudius who became
Our modern Obama.
Stupid is as stupid dresses.
The lark of the gym girl’s failure is the flight of the country’s
How many veterans must die before she closes her eyes
To our President’s hype?
How many times must Obama blame the Republicans
For his own divisiveness?
He doesn’t believe in death panels but he has put
A communist grid around our heads
And killed us with governmental excess and attention.
He isn’t shy.
We die beneath the weight of his big government.
I get sties in my eyes when I look at his dissemblance.
The liberal Washington Post points out his Pinocchio’s.
He is a wooden head.
Who else would want to rule the world by deduction,
Ignoring the inductive reasoning of pragmatic intelligence.
Obama, put on your pajamas and go back to bed where
You can’t hurt anyone except Michelle who has to swallow
Your warped rhetoric.
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