"I'm sorry, Mr Prez," the boy sees his mess.

"I rather like it, my man. Should see mine.

Let's see what you did." Timmy hands him a Kids.

"Great cover you did! This will sure lift the lid

off of everything. Boy, you done fine."

Irving beckons, "Hey Tim," and hands the camera to him.

"Just a quick one of me with your folks,

to convince your Aunt June. Do you know how to zoom?

Done! Now ... to the press room!" So they go to Tim's room.

"Did you untidy for me?" Irving jokes.

"I'll whack it on floppy and send you a copy!"

"Fantastic!" laughs Julie. "That's proof.

With my sister I'll need it, 'cause if June doesn't read it

or actually see it, she'll never believe it."

Only Pete heeds the sounds in the roof.

"If it's OK, with you, we have work to do.

Bet you're proud of your boy, this reporter."

"Oh yes, Irving, truly, so proud!" replies Julie.

"Quite proud," says Pete coolly, meaning "No ... not unduly."

But he smiles, as one does, on camcorder.

Soon he emerges, having done with his urges.

"I'm Irving!" "I'm Julie." "I'm Pete."

"Nice place. I'm impressed." "Thanks! May I take your headdress?"

"No, it's comfortable, more or less." "Well ... who would have guessed

that we'd have such a guest? Take a seat."

(Seeing it's Christmas, there's an extra verse today with Irving's compliments.)





The spooks all surround the Mundines'. Irving bounds

to the door, hangers-on hanging on.

"Knock knock! Anyone in?" calls the Prez with a grin.

"Mr President! Come in," says Julie Mundine.

"Don't mind if I do. Where's the john?"

Kill the President

Part 11



Eight o'clock rocks around, the Mundines hear a sound

like 50 Hells Angels arriving

at 30 Elm Way (OK, OK, I know it's cliché

-- too 'Hometown, USA'). The presidential motorcade

squeals up to the house. Irving driving.

Season's greetings to readers of this 'umble poetry blog. Thanks for being 'with it' in 2004 and I hope 'Kill the President' entertains and amuses during the coming year. Or years, as it seems it might be. (Just kidding, but there are a lot of verses to come.)

If it's not too cold (or hot, depending where you live), step outside on Christmas night and take in the beams of the full moon that will shine on every child, mother, father, politician, soldier and refugee, rich and starving person on our small planet.

I hope you have a great holiday, and a safe one.

Pip

"What time will I come?" "Sir? What time will you come?"

"I hope that's OK with you, Timmo."

"Cool! It'll roll off the press about seven, I guess.

Or 7:30, Mr Prez." "7:30! Yess!!" the President says,

"That's great. About eight watch your gate for my limo."

"Front page, before dark." "But didn't you say Quark?"

"Sir, I mean that your story will headline."

"Oh. Sorry. This stuff ... this computer stuff's tough.

I could do it, sure 'nuff, but dancing letters 'n' stuff ...

OK, I'll go and pray. I know you're on deadline.

"Quark? I'll be fucked! It sounds like a duck!

But I like it! It's just what we need!

So -- when can I read this story? We need

to get out a feed to the press and TV!"

"Tonight, sir." "Does my interview lead?"

It takes Timmy ages to type in the pages

but he gets the mag finished by dark.

There's the phone -- it's the Prez! "Hi, Timmy. The press

will be jealous! I confess I don't know much about this.

What do you use? PageMaker?" "No. Quark."

The day after his briefing by Irving, he's leafing

through the transcript. To Tim Mundine's credit

he quickly engages; for an editor his age he's

not fazed by the pages, he does it in stages

although it's a damn lot to edit.

[Read the verses so far at http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/kill_the_president.html]

OK. Here's Tim at home at this point of the poem

(though, of course, unaware that he's in one),

on account of Lumwedder on the horns of a dilemma --

well, not horns. And not dilemma. Another trope would be better

but you're stymied by rhyme once you begin one.

That said, I'm not averse at this stage in the verse
to changing it, to mess with and muck with it.
Except for one thing: he actually is Tim.
He was born Tim. He is Tim. Always was Tim. He'll die Tim,
(though not in this poem, thank God). So we're stuck with it.

I know. 'Tim'. Done to death. Don't waste your breath.
I already know that he shouldn't be Tim.
It's a cliche. It's twee. A central casting TV
kid's kind of name. It should be Lyle or Kyle, but you see
it mightn't suit us, but it suits him.

Kill the President

Part 10

At this point in my verse I believe I could fare worse
than to offer a minor prediction:
you will say that 'John Graham' as a character's name
is OK, and 'Chuck Fleiss' much the same, but you'll say it's a shame
about 'Tim' -- it's like something from fiction.

"Mr President, no. I really must go
and put this edition to bed."
(John Graham of the SS, finger firmly pressed
to his ear, whispers "Yes. Yes. Got it Mr S.
Yes sir. Yes ... on tape ... Yep. Yes. Every damn word that he said.")

End of Part 9

"But the job of the press is not to impress
nor to follow sensation or scoops.
If you weren't the boss man, these views would be banned,
but let's make a stand." "Mundine, you're my man!
And I do like a man who likes Loops."

[Read the verses so far at http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/kill_the_president.html]

"So Tim, tell me straight. Do you think it will rate?
This interview -- these matters bacterial?
I think I did swell -- it's important! Why hell,
they should take it well!" "Sir, you never can tell
when it comes to this kind of material.

"Kids monthly, you say. Swell! I read it each day.
Well, not every day. But each week.
Can you make the letters ... sort of ... move?" asked Lumwedder.
"Excuse me, Mr Lumwedder?" "No. Forget it. It's like Hedda
always says: I should think 'fore I speak.