Unseemly To Crash The World Economy

UNSEEMLY TO CRASH THE WORLD ECONOMY (Cantor In The Mist, Version 3)

The gracious Lady from UK,
Lady Erica, is astounded,
wonders if the Americans are
mortgaging themselves into socialism,
borrowing the rotten boroughs of olde
flooding the land of the free with
swamp swap toxic securities,
some sort of Donnybrook
(Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve it)

Cousin Lady Erica* cries across the ocean blues
to cousin Madison and his Specters†: you’ve

forgotten your revolution,
lifted an old tea ship adrift
the socialist moor of recent yore,
a fog and marsh imported.

I see a U.S. congress of heath
peaty, bogged down in
quasi-stimulus. Look here
you ruffians, you
petty porkers afoul,
your sheep’s in the swamp,
the cow is in your heath

Your liberty choir has lost its voice.
Hush petty Pelosi, let Eric Cantor sing.
The sheep are simply cowering,
the corn’s not in the cow

Hush little Pelosi and David Obey,
a thirteen dollar tax cut a week
won’t feed the middle class, not
any more than pap will do it

Much ado about
the Shrub League players.

*Erica: Genus for Shrubs, rigid and branched, the heaths. Or person’s name.
†A ghost or a last name: Senator Arlen Specter, one of three Republican senators voting with the Democrats.
Representative Eric Cantor of Virginia, the Republican whip.
(House minority leader, Representative John A. Boehner of Ohio).
Speaker Nancy Pelosi of California.
Representative David R. Obey of Wisconsin, chairman of the Appropriations Committee.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Cooking Gyros For Swat Valley

COOKING GYROS FOR SWAT VALLEY (Swatting Flies In Pakistan — Version 3)

We used to be
the Switzerland of Pakistan
many orchards
much fruit
much minding.

In my mind I see
the mulberry trees,
see much fruit, the
plum of the valley
minding apricots, damson
cracking walnuts like jewels
minding a fig leaf
a grape, the jujube
minding these and the olive tree
in my dreams of Swat Valley

We thought
like fruit flies
insurgents could be thwarted
could be swatted

In exile, my
restaurant work is a meditation
chopping lamb into chunks
into pieces, coalescing
thoughts for peace
charcoal broiled
hoping coalition forces will
bring a peace home, but I
am mashed chick peas
and tahini: the skeleton of
the sesame seed, fallen, my
kernel floated and crushed
feeling pasty, stuck in New York
rolling out an unfamiliar phyllo flat
with pistachios and honey sadness.

Oh the strutting about,
the grazing on tables where
all the world’s a
thoughtless stage, confused
the size of Delaware
the size of Swat
valley of rotting fruit
and war.

Stand up for Swat Valley
the Switzerland of Pakistan

The Taliban
have kidnapped
my Father, and

from here in refuge
I work to earn a ransom, the
flowers of my Swati meadows
in my mind, my eye,
the charcoal smell of my
burnt house wafted in a nostril

Oh Pakistan,
for every truce I die,
while every envoy
seems to fiddle
with Shariah at the door.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Swatting Flies In Pakistan 2 (edit)

Swatting Flies In Pakistan

We used to be
the Switzerland of Pakistan
many orchards
much fruit
much minding.

In my mind I see
the mulberry trees,
see much fruit, the
plum of the valley
minding apricots, damson
cracking walnuts like jewels
minding a fig leaf
a grape, the jujube
minding these and the olive tree
in my dreams of Swat Valley

We thought
like fruit flies
insurgents could be thwarted
could be swatted

In exile, an
Obama for peace
seemed hopeful,
one making pieces of harm
come together in compromise

Oh the strutting about,
the grazing on tables where
all the world’s a
Joe Biden stage, confused
the size of Delaware
the size of Swat
valley of rotting fruit.

Stand up for Swat Valley
the Switzerland of Pakistan

The Taliban
have kidnapped
my Father, and

from New York in refuge
I work to earn a ransom; the
flowers of my Swati meadows
are in my mind, my eye

Oh Pakistan,
for every truce I die,
while Richard C. Holbrooke
fiddles with Sharia at the door.
—- Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Swatting Evil Flies In Pakistan

Swatting Grand Flies in Pakistan

We used to be
the Switzerland of Pakistan
many orchards
much fruit

We thought
like fruit flies
insurgents could be thwarted
could be swatted

An Obama for peace
seemed hopeful,
one making pieces of harm
come together in compromise

Oh God,
all the world’s a Joe Biden stage
where Swat, my homeland
is the size of Delaware

Stand up for Swat
the Switzerland of Pakistan

The Taliban
have kidnapped
my Father, and

from New York
I work to earn
a ransom with
the flowers of my Swati meadows
in my mind

Oh Pakistan,
for every truce I die,
while Richard C. Holbrooke
fiddles with Sharia at the door.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Congress In The Heath

CANTOR IN THE MIST

Cousin Lady Erica* cries across the ocean blues
to cousin Madison and his Specters†: you’ve

forsaken my spirit to lift an old tea ship,
adrift the socialist moor of yore,
a fog and marsh imported.

The U.S. congress of heath
is peaty, bogged down in
quasi-stimulus, look
you petty porkers afoul,
the sheep’s in the swamp,
the cow is in the heath

The liberty choir has lost its voice.
Hush petty Pelosi, let Eric Cantor sing.
The sheep are simply cowering,
the corn’s not in the cow

Hush little Pelosi and David Obey,
a thirteen dollar tax cut
won’t feed the middle class,
any more than pap will

Much ado about
the Shrub League players.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh
*Erica: Genus for Shrubs, rigid and branched, the heaths. Or person’s name.
†A ghost or a last name: Senator Arlen Specter, one of three Republican senators voting with the Democrats.
Representative Eric Cantor of Virginia, the Republican whip.
(House minority leader, Representative John A. Boehner of Ohio).
Speaker Nancy Pelosi of California.
Representative David R. Obey of Wisconsin, chairman of the Appropriations Committee.

Three Senators On Friday the 13th: Susan, Arlen, and Olympia

Three Senators on Friday The 13th

A thousand pages,
no one’s read it.
Catastrophe, catastrophe.

The Senate sits there:
Mount Olympus with Snow

A thousand pages
that sages needn’t read.
Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Vote, vote, vote for these:
a Hog Museum, and
Hybrid Dog and Pony
from the
Grand Genetic Collider

Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Drink a Collins and vote
with Snow

Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Et tu, Specter of the Senate,
you bring us a ghost of a chance.

Hope it works as
we all need a stimulus
and a hot dog.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh