Dennis the Peasant

Bad Republican Poetry: The Valentine's Day Edition

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

Men, we would do well to remember - here in the post-coital glow of Valentine's Day - just how fast the powerful mixture of testosterone, unattended head trauma and two really big tits can lead to catastrophe. Exhibit One? How about this Valentine's Day poem sent to Pammycakes:

Dear Atlas, you're my Valentine
For I love Guts and Truth.
You're down to Earth yet so divine
You're freedom's hope, your words are wine,
With you on her side, Israel's fine...
You're a veritable Ruth.

When you speak out what you opine
To introduce Marknificent Steyn...
Or pen a pithy Atlas line
Debunking myths of palestine,
And point us to the warning sign
That jihad's a danger not benign,
And where we're heading won't be fine
If we give an inch to those hateful swine...
I cheer you, forsooth.

Yes, Atlas, you're my Valentine
For I love Vim and Verve -
Those twin fruits growing on your vine,
So succulently served on-line,
A pundit's treat so genu-ine -
Your are my day's hors d'oeuvre.

When glimpsing the interior design
Of your home, and how your children shine,
And see you in action... we're on cloud nine,
With tingles up and down our spine
From who you are to all that's thine...
We know which G-d you serve.

So, Atlas, you're my Valentine
For I love poetry
And prose from you is more like rhyme
You turn the mundane to sublime,
In Freedom's cause time after time
From sea to shining sea.

So here's to you my hero-ine,
Stay effervescent and on-line
A hug, a kiss, a wave, some wine
Dear Atlas, you're my Valentine,
With Luv to you from me.

-David

That was really, really bad.

David may love poetry, but it seems obvious poetry does not love him back...

All is not lost, though, by any means. This may be the first Valentine's Day love poem in the history of the world that uses the word "jihad". And I never knew the "twin fruits of the vine" - a rather novel naming of Pammy's pride - were called "Vim" and "Verve". I thought they were "Right" and "Left". Has anyone ever rhymed "Ruth" with "forsooth" before? Or commented on his beloved's interior decorating?

Amazing.

Let this be an abject lesson for all you passionate Republican males out there: If you develop an overwhelming need to express your profound love (or extreme horniness) (or both) in iambic pentameter, throw down your pen and head immediately to the jewelry store. Believe me, she'll thank you for it later...

How About Some Truly Inspired Republican Poetry...

From the estimable Callimachus, and inspired by this week's wretched example of bad epic progressive poetry...

The Ballad of the Arkansas Hillbillies

Come and listen to my story bout a 'gal named Hill,
Married to a man who couldn't keep it still;
Then one day she was debatin' a black dude,
And up through the rhetoric came a bubblin' feud:
Competing victimologies, that is.

Well the next thing you know, ol' Hill's the nominee,
The progressives said, "Hill, get away from me,"
But when push came to shove, she had 'em by the balls:
"If you don't like my schtick, go vote for Ron Paul's."

So inspired was I by this literary outburst, that I came up with the following...

The Clinton Family

They're creepy and they're kooky,
Mysterious and spooky,
They're all together ooky,
The Clinton Family.

Their house is a museum
Where people come to see 'em
They really are a scream
The Clinton Family.

(Neat)
(Sweet)
(Petite)

So get a witches shawl on
A broomstick you can crawl on
We're gonna pay a call on
The Clinton Family.

The Clinton Bunch

Here's the story of a bull dyke lady
Who was fighting off one very lovely boy.
Another was a man of color, just like his brother,
With a Muslim name.

Here's the office, of a man named Billy,
Who was busy gettin' hummers of his own,
There were two fat adults engaged in foreplay,
When they were all alone.

Till the one day when the lady met this fellow
And they knew it was much more than a hunch,
That this group would somehow form a family.
That's the way we all became the Clinton Bunch.
The Clinton Bunch,
That's the way we all became the Clinton Bunch.
The Clinton Bunch.

It's Time For More Bad Republican Poetry!

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

I don't know about you, but I'm still recovering from the near fatal effects of last week's This Week's Amanda Sentence. If that girl stop yammerin' soon, I'm gonna need a truss!

Anyway, since I haven't finished my latest Pammycakes post, and since a select number of my commenters seem bored and unhappy in their respective playpens, I thought I'd break out some Republican Poetry I wrote a couple of weeks ago and see if I can forestall the need to start imposing harsh discipline on the ol' readership.

This particular poem uses the Burroughs cut-up method, and comes from a series of posts by Dumptruck Debbie, Pammycakes and Da Raj.

Enjoy...

We Must Be Allowed To Ask These Questions

Loving dah love.
I like this story,
so indulge me.
There's falling in love
and there's trying
to have yourself
shot out of a cannon into it.
They couldn't possible fake love.
Love?
Actually,
senility is the most benign
explanation.

Forget borrowing your boyfriend's
leather jacket.
I've repeatedly written about moisturizer
and make-up being pushed on men.
This could be worse.
But when women start borrowing men's makeup,
you know we've really gone off the deep end.
So what's next?
Hot, cold... or do we care?

By G-d, they think we are stoopid.
If they could, for just one moment,
one rare impossible second,
experience the splendor,
sublimity,
the state of living in love
- le grand passion --
they would join the human race.
Rhythm is something
you either have or don’t have,
and when you have it,
you have it all over.
They wouldn't have fooled me
for a second.

Is nothing sacred?
Just follow the money, you say.
Okay, sure, normally good advice.
But the sun still has plans for us
and the sun isn't interested in our money.
Unfortunately, our culture celebrates commitment, not doubt.
And so I implore my fellow Americans to
question, question, question.

Republican Poetry: An Ode To Glenn Beck

(with apologies to John Keats)

My fanny aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of Schlitz I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and emergency-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy unhappy lot,
But being too happy in thine unhappiness, -
That thou, clear-coloned fool of the media,
In some melodious plot
Of hemorrhoids and whines numberless,
Crying of mistreatment in full-throated ease.

O, for a cooling wipe! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved pharmacy,
Feeling of relief and reduction of swelling,
Dance, and painless wipe, and anal mirth!
O for a bottle full of the warm Fleet,
Full of the true, the flushable waters,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And Vaseline-stained mouth;
That I might crap, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the doctor's potty:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the afflicted hast never known,
The weariness, the itch, and the fret
Here, where men sit and groan with each pass;
Where lasers zap a few, sad, last stubborn 'roids,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think of going is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-bummed despairs,
Where doctors and nurses cannot keep me happy,
Or even pain-free beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly from thee,
Not treated by Hippocrates and his pards,
But by the soulless minions of H.M.O.,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is my rear,
And haply the Moon-Doc is on his throne,
Cluster'd around by all his nurses;
But here there is no light,
Save what from the laser is with the pain shown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

Farting I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring over my insurance forms
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou listen, and all the while I'll whine in vain -
To thy high requiem become a real pain in the ass.

Republican Poetry: The William S. Burroughs Cut-Up Method Edition

Reader Callimachus seems to feel that ol' Dennis has too much talent to actually write really bad Republican Poetry. That would be one way to look at it. Another way to look at it is that I don't have enough talent to write really bad Republican Party.

Personally, the second possibility strikes me as the more likely of the two...

Anyway, I gave the matter some thought and decided to review a week's worth of posts by three of the most pretentious, banal, insipid and laugh-out-loud stupid Republican bloggers I could find, and then do the old William S. Burroughs cut-up method on the sentences I selected from each. So without further ado, here's my newest Republican Poem, which I've entitled...

Had I Been Blogging Today

Had I been blogging today,
I would have noted for you the obvious -
it's much more fun to be the President of France
than to be running for President in the US.
What does this mean?
Think it about it.
It's not simple.
And I was only joking when I predicted
the North American Man-Roomba
Love Association.
Even though that time is now derided by liberals
as the "greedy Reagan '80s"
networks and TV programmers had better values.
Meanwhile, think about what happens if she loses.

America is declining faster than even I thought.
Do you believe there are alien life forms in the universe?
More submission.
More sharia.
More more more for Islam,
less less less America.
And then there are the "inexpensive" Nikes for sale
in Arab Muslim-owned gas stations
throughout the Detroit area.
The boredom factor is extremely important
in this endless campaign.
It's not just the left-wing,
anti-war,
pan-Islamist Linda Ellerbee specials on
the cable sister station to MTV.
Even though it's just a generation ago,
boy have we declined.
There are rational men.
There are reasonable men.
I have faith.
Send a fake spaceship.

Note: A free life-size copy of the Pandagon Vagina of Death™ to the person who correctly names the three pretentious, banal, insipid and laugh-out-loud stupid Republican bloggers involved.

"Mmm... poetry..."

More Republican Poetry...

Response to my first Republican poem was encouraging, all things considered. It seems we've got more than one Republican who's intent on embracing their inner Angelou. Given that, it seems time for me to unleash my latest creation...

My Love For You

My love for you
approaches the infinite
My sweet Baboo

Ever expanding
outwards, as if
tuned to the
movement or
migration, if you
will, of my
waistline

Over the hills and
through the woods
To the Grandmother's house
of your heart
I go

Like some never-ending
inflationary creep
through the
income brackets
used for calculating
the Alternative
Minimum Tax
of my soul

Republican Poetry

After posting the endearingly dreadful poetry of some hapless DailyKOS diarist (The End To Capitalism), it occurred to me that we see very little poetry generated by the Conservatives and Republicans. For whatever reason, Lefties, Liberals and Democrats seem to be much more apt to pull the trigger on random poetry creation that folk like my own true self.

Now some might suggest that Lefties, Liberals and Democrats are, by nature, more sensitive than we Republican types. Personally, I have a hard time buying this. As anyone who has read any given 15 lines of prose on this site knows, I've got sensitivity out the blow hole. And yet you don't see any poetry pixilated 'round here, now do you? So what's up with that?

I think an alternate explanation may come closer to the truth: We Republicans have jobs. It's hard to focus on your inner Walt Whitman when that sales forecast is due on your boss' desk by lunch. Despite this, I think it's about time we Conservative and Republican types start writing poetry… Because it's never too early to start trying to convince the masses that you actually have a touch of the muse.

That's the sort of thing that could make selling tax cuts a whole lot easier.

In any event, I'll kick it off with my very first foray into Republican Poetry. I call it…

Pondering The Sylvan Glade

I gaze upon the sylvan glade
hundred year old oak and maple
towering white pine
sheltering owls
sparrows
woodpeckers
with a carpet of needles
and bough
as if the breath of
God still lingers
what a great place
to put a McDonald's