Not the whole Secret Service, just Graham makes them nervous,
and they could feel a lot better about Hedda.
They're not trying to diss, but unless she insists,
she's not part of this. "So who'd really miss
nasty Hedda?" Win begins. "Not Lumwedder ..."

Tim plays with his salad. "I don't know if that's valid,
Winnie. Sure, Hedda's different, no contest.
But to say that she's nasty -- I think that's too hasty.
I think maybe she's spaced, she --" "Hey, Tim, that looks tasty!"
says Cletus. Says Tim, "Be my guest.

"There's some who say Hedda is one of the better
First Ladies this country has had."
"Like you said, no contest," (Geoff's idea of a jest).
"OK, Geoff, we're impressed, but it's no intelligence test
to marry a president. I'm not sure she's so bad.

"Why does everyone pillory her? She's no Hillary,
no Nancy." (Is there an echo in here?)
"So what if she's rich?" "Timmy! Tim!! She's a bitch!"
says Carlos. The pitch of the topic must switch,
so Cletus says "Ditch it!! She'll hear!"

"Whatever," says Heather, "I never think about Hedda.
But I think about 'Listen to this serial'.
And 'CI581' -- I don't know where they come
from, these oracles Lum is getting. Am I dumb?"
"You're not dumb," Tim replies. "But it's immaterial ...

"I feel an epiphany coming on."

I got them sit down, cain't cry, oh Lord I wanna die, woman on the Next Blog blues

(Nothing whatsoever to do with 'Kill the President')

I tried on a brand new blog this morning,
        Cause that old Next Blog don't work no more
I tried on a brand new blog this morning,
        Cause that old Next Blog mama don't work no more
Gonna change my way of living,
        Ain't nothing like it was before

Where did that woman get to
        That Next Blog babe I seen
Where did that woman get to
        That Next Blog mama I seen
I shouldn't never have clicked her off
        That Next Blog button treat me soooo mean

Cletus's age difference is met with indifference,
there's no preference or deference the kids feel.
He's a hoot, totally funny, his disposition is sunny,
totally cool, he's got a gun he's grown up so there's money,
and stuff like an automobile.

Though nobody's saying, they think that John Graham --
well, they don't do much playing when that guy is around.
Sure, Graham had a kid and, far as they knew, Cletus didn't,
and John isn't forbidden, they haven't overridden
him, it's more like the other way round.

Kill the President

Part 17

The White House cafeteria. They're not talking bacteria
for a change, Winsome, Cletus, Tim, Stephanie
and a few more from the team. "What the hell does it mean?"
asks Carlos. "It seems," says Geoffrey, "a dream."
"Aw durrrr, Geoffrey!" sniffs Tiffany, "Try epiphany?!"

Kill the President

Part 16

You might think that the poet is shallow. I know it.
I'll blow it unless I characterize better.
But are you sure there's a hurry? Like Lum says, "No worries,
no worries chicken curry". I promise, don't worry --
I won't forget Timmy or Hedda.

The clues can't be solved nor the conflicts resolved
in the time of a movie or show,
or the time that we read a novel. We need
much more time and less speed. Like, Lumwedder, he'd
understand -- it's about eons. You know?

Not that Hedda's a genius. In fact, just between us,
you might say she's thick as two planks.
You might say it. I wouldn't. As the author I shouldn't
tell, but show, but couldn't you picture her, wouldn't
she get the Oscar in Gump next to Hanks?

I beg patience, dear reader. For example, our Hedda
like you (and, I trust, me) is three dimensional.
Maybe more. Reports which say that those comprise 'rich',
secondly 'witch', thirdly 'bitch', ignore the levels in which
her soul revels -- too many levels to mention all.

Likewise Tim's no marshmallow, no creampuff. Not shallow.
'Cardboard' would be a hard word, not descriptive.
I do fully intend to draw him out, my dear friend,
long before this rhyme ends, though the timing depends
on the format, which is prescriptive (and restrictive).

Anyway, that's a digression. But an earnest expression
of my hope that, among matters bacterial
and eccentricities of rhyme, if you'll just give it time,
-- for we're unclocking time -- 'Kill the President' will climb
to some heights, plumb some depths, characterial.

"Hurry up!" is the wrong call; join me for the long haul.
"The medium is the message" being the inference.
So said Marshall McLuhan, and that's what we're doing,
though McLuhan would be rueing that phrase, for McLuhan
said "the medium is the massage", but same difference.

Message or massage, the rites of our passage
exalt time as our temple, our staple.
By the way, I can see no reason to hide that capuccino
is why today I'm so keen, so full of stanzas and beans, so
loquacious -- two strong ones, bacon and eggs (drowned in maple).

End of Part 16

He was a mite bit disturbed, a little perturbed,
so he reached in the dark for a Lark.
(Unlike many folk, he never did smoke
till he quit using coke. There's a White House in-joke
how that all began with a casual remark:

it seems that Lumwedder had mentioned to Hedda
"Hun, I read that some research said smoking
can damage DNA and, if we'd had kids, then some day,
our grandchildren, let's say, could suffer some way.
We should quit children." She thought he was joking.)

End of Part 15

Now here's a weird thing it was at that same minute
as Graham counted cattle in Chevy Chase, DC,
while those cows would not run one did run for our Lum, one
appeared with Paul Bunyan. If you ate Onion grunion
you might dream of Bunyan's Babe at 29 degrees!

He could have made many other decisions. His brother
told him years ago "Come to Australia.
Johnny, leave all that prattle, come and work with my cattle,
why the hell should you battle in DC? John, that'll
just reduce you to ulcers, and failure."

Those days of his youth: thoughts were words, words were truth
and a vow was a vow, made to keep,
and feelings were felt. "Man, she's clever, she's built ...
think she likes me!" The quilt cannot cover his guilt;
and her warmth can't thaw John Graham's sleep.

By two in the morning he's finally yawning,
slips under the quilt with his lover.
All those nights he has tossed and turned in a frost,
accounting the cost of the things he has lost
from those coveted days under cover.

Man, he's in pretty deep. "John, you really should sleep."
His wife, though she hasn't full knowledge,
can see something's troubling him, seething and bubbling --
in his sleep he's been mumbling -- but, let's face it, the doubling
of their pay will send Britney to college.

Kill the President

Part 15

Agent Graham looks pensive. It's very expensive
to live in the national capital.
So his recent decision to embark on this mission
was a sin of commission, not omission, and contrition
requires admission his condition's no mishap at all.

"'Ladder of evolution is not the solution'?"
Asks Professor of Politics Edwin
Reese-Darby at Durban University. "Urban
analysis? Too much bourbon?" While in burqa and turban
they're discussing Lum's burden, among the Bedouin.

Twelve kilometres inland from Helsinki, Finland
elsa msgs oona, her gf:
"gsoh on ladr this prez get badr
he so gr8 he get madr evry day cu l8r
ttys how ur nu bf?" and then presses Send.

Kill the President

Part 14

"'*The ladder of evolution is not the solution',"
says a diner on a stool in a diner.
"I read it last night on Lumwedder's website.
Know sumpin? He's right. Yeah, dang me, he's right!
Honey ... your ribs are the best in Carolina."

The Bactorium team is well used to Lum's dreams,

but they do seem extremely concerned;

as an extreme prophylactic should some scheme get climactic

or some theme deemed galactic, Tim beams up a tactic.

"'K, team, the meeting's adjourned."

"What else, what else, Lum?" the team asks as one.

"Nothin' much, she just added 'Elk oil, pa'.

And somethin' about flyin'. Wait a minute, I'm tryin'."

(You can hear his brain trying.) "Yeah, ain't no denyin',

she said 'You flew CI581'. So bizarre!"

Tim shakes his head with a smile; "Lum you said

you had a vision we might call 'bacterial'?"

"I did? I forget. Oh, you bet, weirdest one yet!

Just lately seem to get these sounds through my hat.

Only happens when I eat other cereal."

The team kinda squirms. "Yeah, not about worms,

and not about germs, least, not very.

In my hat a voice says, 'Listen up, Mister Prez,

to this serial,' she says, and then disappears

loud as a buffalo herd on the prairie."

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No verses for a few days, friends. I'm working on a new plan for an online group associated with Kill the President. If you're interested in learning more, please email me and put Reading and Writing in the Subject header. Thanks, and see you soon. Pip