Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sarah Palin's Midnight Message

“Palin Says She Didn’t Err on Paul Revere”
                     Headline in the New York Times

Sarah Palins Midnight Message

Listen to Fox News, children, and you shall hear,
Of a midnight ride that’s very queer,
But not in April of Seventy-five
When none of you were yet alive, 
But, now, when Palin says, “If the Yankees march
                          By land or sea from the town to-night,                     
Hang a dollar sign above the arch 
Of the Old North Church as a signal light—
One if by Todd, and two if by me;
And I waiting on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Republican village and farm,
For Tea Partiers to be up and to arm.”

Then she slips away and with muffled oar
Silently rows to the opposite shore,
Just as the moon rises over the bay,
Where thousands of redacted emails lay
Stating ungrammatically she’s declared war
On every S.O.B., near and far,
Who doesn’t know their ass from NASCAR,    
And on every traitor who’s never tried 
To stop the creeping socialist tide.

Meanwhile, Todd through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with pricked up ears,
Checking out massage parlors as he sneers
At all who can’t see Russia from their door.
He says, “My growling mama grizzly will eat
Up all the cowards whose fears
Of Global Warming are so G(al)ore.”

Next he climbs the Old North Church tower, 
Crowing to the bats in the belfry overhead
And with his Alaskan derring-do tread
Scatters the pigeons who cower
In the rafters that round him made
A hiding place for all those candidates afraid
To stick their necks out, except the Mormon, so tall,
The biggest RINO of all.
Then Todd pauses to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of Beantown
Where RomneyCare has cast such a pall.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
Kennedys, their graves on the hill,
Wrapped in a silence so deep and so still
That Todd could hear the departed Ted
And other liberal ghosts who’d spent
Taxpayers’ hard earned money and lent
Even more to General Motors—the road to hell
Is paved by Goldbrickers under the spell
Of the New Deal’s disciples at the Fed. 
A moment only Todd curses the aforesaid,
And suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On his moose hunting mama grizzly far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay—
Where each redacted email floats
Like an armada of paper boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to misspeak and deride, 
Booted and furred like a clothes horse in stride,
On the opposite shore prances Wasilla’s Pride.
Now she pats her horse’s hide,
Now she gazes at Russia, so far but so near;
Then, impetuous, she stomps the earth,
And resolves to reduce her ample girth;
But mostly she watches with a squinting glower
The belfry of the North Church tower
As it rises above the graves on the hill,
Where the Kennedys lay somber and still.
And lo! as she looks, on the tower’s height
A glimmer, and then a dollar’s light!
She springs to the saddle, the bridle she turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on her sight
A second dollar sign in the belfry burns.

A stream of unconsciousness, her smile so sweet,
Each wink of the beauty queen in the dark
Spirals virally on the internet—a Palin remark
Speeds electronically with each tweet,
Faster than a speeding bullet, faster than light,
For the fate of Palination is riding this night;
And the spark struck out by that tongue in its spite
Kindled the dame into fame on Grub Tweet.
She  has left Wasilla and mounted the steep,
High above candidates with promises to keep.
Over their  sheer stalking heads she glides
As she crosses the knees of her plump carcass
Under the expensive skirt from Nieman Marcus
And the cesarean scar it allegedly hides.

It’s twelve by the village clock
And she still hasn’t announced
Whether she’d put her head on the block
And risk derailing the gravy train if she got trounced
In the 2012 presidential slog,
After which there’d always be some wag to ask her,
“Are you the same Miss Sled Dog
Who eats, shoots, and leaves Alaska?”

It’s one by the old village clock
When Wasilla’s Pride enters Lexington
And sees the liberal media gathered to mock
Her arrogant ignorance of the past.
Gazing at her with a hungry glare,
They  assemble there for a repast,
To feed electronically on a telegenic moron.

It’s two by the village clock
When her entourage pulls into Concord town
Where she knows Thoreau drowned
In the pond after hitting his head on Plymouth Rock,
And Charlton Heston, wearing only a jock,
Fired the shot heard round the world.
She looks ahead to the Fox Evening News,
The one network not controlled by Jews,
For her glorification of guns to be unfurled.

You know, from her bestsellers, which nobody’s read,
Of how she would rather be dead than red;
Of how she left Alaska, with its long winter’s sleep,
Because she had lucrative engagements to keep;
Of how she had flown after losing her water,
And how Levi had impregnated her daughter;
And then how that daughter had gone on the stump
And made a nice bundle getting over the hump;
Of how this family of Alaskan chillbillies
Keeps getting richer than Beverly Hillbillies;
And of how Katie Couric tried to mess up her head
By asking her what, if anything, she’d read.

Twitterin’, Facin’, and sometimes emailin’—
Through the night rides Sarah Palin;
With only the maverick McCain to thank,
She counts her money all the way to the bank;
The pink rogue elephant in a canter,
With every Givenchy eager to pant her;
Without a misgiving, doubt, or care,
She’s made herself a millionaire.

Distorting history and mauling each fact,
She’s like some P.T. Barnum act.
What’s the midnight message of Sarah Palin?
In America, any ignoramus can make a fortune failin’!
Or if you prefer to Rin-Tin-Tin it,
There’s a sucker born every minute.
                                                    Robert Forrey

Alaskan Chillbillies