The first thought that occurred to me after reading this was how sad it must be to have to spend Christmas in the hospital. H.W. Bush "41" was never my favorite president (that would be his predecessor), but unlike the current occupier in the Oval Office, 41 is a war hero and a man of honor and integrity. I have little doubt that, even at 90 years of age and wheelchair bound, he would easily whoop obama.
The next thought that occurred to me, knowing 41's obsession with parachuting at his advanced age, can best be expressed with the following poem titled, "Twas the Night After Christmas." It is a purely 100% original poem, and any similarity to a famous Christmas classic is strictly coincidental.
TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS (at Houston Methodist Hospital)
Twas the night after Christmas, when all through Houston Methodist
Not a doctor was stirring, not even a specialist.
The I.V.s were strung by the patients with care,
In hopes the saline bag soon would drip there.
The children in pediatrics were nestled in pneumatic beds,
While visions of going home danced in our heads.
With my head in a bandage, my arm in a cast,
I just settled in for a drug-induced nap.
When out in the ward there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash,
Tripped in my slippers and re-opened my gash.
The LED lighting on the newly-waxed tiles,
Reflected and worsened my migraine so vile.
When, what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh... no wait, it's a wheelchair.
With a little old rider, so mirthful and fun,
I knew right away it must be Bush 41.
More rapid than eagles his pursuers did chase,
As he wheeled his chair and by name he debased!
"Now Barbara! now, Jeb! now, Georgie and Laura!
Now Cheney! and, Baker!, Sununu and Quayle!
Into the elevator to the hospital roof! to the edge of the railing and over the wall with a poof!
Now BASE jump! BASE jump! BASE jump away all!"
I watched him sail past my window in a backless gowned wingsuit,
His presidential bum wrinkled like dried fruit.
As he sailed past my floor, he passed gas like a balloon that's been punctured,
I knew it wouldn't be prudent to open my window at this juncture.
I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he flew out of sight,
"Read my puckered lips you jack@$$ obama, let's see you do this!"
You sir are pleasantly warped.
ReplyDeleteGood job.
Ed, glad you liked. But hey, who doesn't love good poetry?
ReplyDelete"pleasantly warped" is hilarious.
ReplyDeleteBut not as hilarious and CLEVER as your poem!
You are remarkable...great job!
VERY GOOD POETRY :-) Keats, Shelley...move over!
thanks for your hilarious talents!
Loved the poem. I can so hear Papa Bush utter the last line.
ReplyDeleteExcellent. I'll be singing that next Christmas, after I figure out how to do so without insulting the man that once was head of the C.I.A....I found it a little creepy, when he became President. Such things are disconcerting.
ReplyDeleteZ, "Keats" and "Shelley"? Never heard of them. Are they famous bloggers or folks in those fancy college books I've heard about? Glad you laughed! :)
ReplyDeletecube, I didn't think Papa Bush would worry about rhyming that last line when I channeled him.
Jess, I know. Sounds Russian, don't it?