Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Regardless of Your Political Bent, If You Love Poetry You Can Appreciate a Magnificent Nod to a Classic Poem . . .

i.e. The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert Service.

This wonderful little paean comes from Geoffrey Dunn at HuffPo. In case you hadn't noticed, Mr. Dunn includes links to some of the scandalous claims in his poem. I've only excerpted the poem here, so please head on over to HuffPo to read the rest.

The Cremation of Sarah Palin

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By politicians who moil for graft;
The Juneau jails have their secret tales
That would make you burn in the ass;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
And heard every wolf a wailin',
But none hit the soul, as those two recent polls,
And the cremation of Sarah Palin.


Now Sarah Palin was from Wasilla,
Where methamphetamine runs and flows.
Why she left Lake Lucille for an outside thrill,
The good God only knows.
She was always ambitious, if a little oblivious,
New York and Hollywood cast their spell;
Though she lied through her teeth and padded bra underneath,
That "she'd soon rather live in hell."

Near Valentine's Day, Todd was grinding his way
Over the Iron Dog Trail.
Talk of your cold! Through her Arctic Cat parka's fold,
It stabbed like a driven nail.
The only things worse, was listening to her
When the governorship she was bailin'.
It was absolutely a curse, and politically perverse,
To hear the whining of one Sarah Palin.


Only last month, came a chilling cold front,
As the Harper and Public Policy polls showed quite clearly,
Alaskans had had their fill of the Wasilla shrill,
And no longer loved her so dearly.
So she turned to Todd, seated right next to God,
sayin' : "I think I'll cash in with Fox;
And if I do, I'm pleading that you
Free me from Seward's Ice Box."

On her political deathbead, with Begich ahead,
Even Hilary trounced her in 2016.
"It's the curs├Ęd political cold, and it's got right hold,
'Til I'm chilled clean through to the spleen.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of being ignored that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my political remains."

A gal's last need is a thing to heed,
So Todd swore he would not fail;
And with her makeup gone, at the streak of dawn;
But God! she looked ghastly pale.
She screeched at Todd, and those who blog,
Raving about days past on the campaign trail in...;
But come nightfall, a political corpse was all,
That was left of one Sarah Palin.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And Todd hurried on, guilt-ridden,
With a corpse half hid that he couldn't get rid,
Because of his promise given;
It was lashed to the Cat, and it seemed to blat:
"You may tax your brawn and few brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate these last political remains."



2 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Lately I've been drawn to poems which converse with other poems. They tend to be exceptional conversations.

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