'Twas
the Month After Election
- A Satirical
Poem -
An admittedly highly partisan take-off on the lunacy of the 2000 presidential election, with a doubly Christmassy twist . . .
'Twas the month after election,
when all through Florida land,
Not a single vote was certain,
from pencil, stylus, or hand.
The chads were all hung on the
ballots by a hair,
In hopes that Democratic canvassing
boards soon would be there.
Palm Beach ladies wrestled with
senility, all smug in their views,
With visions of conspiracy; "Buchanan
we didn't choose!"
Some counties had butterfly ballots,
or pregnant dimples "clear,"
And liberals wracked their brains
for a long bleeding-heart's smear.
When on the White House lawn
there arose such a stink,
They sprang from voting booths
to loathe conservative rat finks.
Away to the media crusading Algore
flew like a flash,
And tore open honesty and truth,
evil Republicans to bash.
The moon and the sky, like Chicken
Little, were caving in,
Giving a lustre of "plausibility"
to cynical Democrat spin.
When what to our disbelieving
eyes should appear,
But a grown-up whining crybaby,
as certification drew near.
With a little old Supreme Court,
honorable, liberal, and slick,
To legislate on a whim: this kangaroo
court so quick.
More rapid than eagles, Algore's
counselors came,
And he whistled through fake smiles
and called them by name:
Now Daschle! now Daley! now St. Christopher! now silly Boies!
On, Lieberman! on, Jennings; I'd Rather have Brokaw media ploys!
To the brink of shamelessness! To the very pinnacle of folly!
Now Daschle and Gephardt: dash away objectivity and fairness, by golly!
As the Constitution before
the wild propaganda campaign died,
Faced with the obstacle of rule
of law, they circumvented and lied.
So to thrice-counted punch cards
salivating canvassers they flew,
With bags full of dirty tricks
and chads; arrogant and self-righteous too.
And then, in a twinkling, Algore
heard in his head,
The prying and gnawing of conscience's
dread.
While practicing Reaganisms, in
the mirror saw he with squinting eyes,
Three luminous Ghosts of Close
Elections Past, in but slight disguise.
They were covered in greasy ballots
and dollars, from head to foot,
And their reputations were all
tarnished with compromise and soot.
Like a bundle of risky schemes,
Algore - dazed - fell flat on his back.
He looked like the Gipper, but
dumber, less wrinkly; as if high on crack.
Richard
Nixon's eyes: how they twinkled! his jowls: how merry!
His fingers
made the "victory" sign (McGovern he buried).
His droll
little mouth said: "Let me make this perfectly clear.
I put country
above ambition, in '60 and '74: what a year!"
Old Rutherford
Hayes' beard was long and white as fleece.
A stump
speech from long ago he held tight in his teeth.
The smoke-filled
rooms encircled his head like a scarf:
"When
they called me 'Your Fraudulency,' it made me wanna barf!"
Then
handsome JFK told Algore: "I won because of debates on telly,
But old
man Daley's Chicago shenanigans made victory kinda smelly.
Even Tricky
Dick gracefully, manfully conceded, like a jolly old elf."
With a wink
he warned: "So should you, in spite of your devious self."
Algore suddenly arose, rubbing
his eyes and twisting his head,
Soon giving hostage America to
know it had nothing to dread.
He spoke no more lies and half-truths,
but went straight to work,
Selling all his big oil stock(ings);
no longer the big jerk.
And pointing his finger at himself
instead of patient W. Bush,
He resumed his former pro-life
views, and racial strife wouldn't push.
He sprang to the congress; to
fellow Democrats giving a call,
And urged upon them statesmanship;
ugly bickering to stall.
And we heard him exclaim, as he conceded by the book,
Life means far more than stealing elections by hook or crook.
Jesus said: "the first shall be last, and the last shall be first."
So for the good of the country, my ruthless ambition I will burst.
I've been a chameleon, exaggerated, and torn groups apart;
Now it's time to stop demagoguing; I'll examine my own heart.
And all marvelled at Algore's classy cry, ere he finally faded out of TV sight:
Happy Christmas to all, and to Dubya, you put up a good fight!
Composed on 9 December 2000, the day after the Florida Supreme
Court's farcical 4-3 decision, tragically insuring that chaos and suspicion
and greatly harmful civic division would continue, no matter who emerges
victorious.
See also my similarly satirical, humorous, and socially-conscious poem, The Megabyte Before Christmas, featured on my Old-Fashioned Christmas Page.
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Written in 2000 by Dave Armstrong.