"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.

So Tim took the oath, then presently both –
Head of State, cub reporter – ate Loops.
"Can you do it?" he asked. "Are you up to the task?
It's a onerous task. Can you do this?" he asked.
"Mmm, we should give these to the troops."

The interview finished, with zest undiminished,
he called for two more bowls of cereal.
"Tim, I want you to swear on Mr Nixon's book here --
raise your hand in the air. I faithfully swear
to honor these matters bacterial."

"We ready? Let's start. I wanna speak from the heart
to the folks of this nation of ours.
So, where to begin, hey Timmy Mundine
of Kids magazine, so they'll know what I mean?"
He began, and having begun, went for hours.

"So, got the tape running?" Timmy's forthcoming:
"No recorder, sir. Just can't afford it."
"OK, Timmy, use mine. Yeah, this one works fine.
Some predecessor of mine, before he resigned,
whenever he talked, he'd record it.

"Cool. What was I sayin'? Oh yeah. Tim: decayin'.
You know what I mean? Tell me straight."
"Well sir, there's bacteria ––" "Hey, Timmy, I hear ya!
Precisely! Bacteria! When you was in the wisteria
I thinks 'Him and me will relate'!

Kill the President

Part 9

Inside, Irving Lumwedder says "Ah, this is better!
Now Tim, like I promised, a scoop.
Tim, everyone says that I've lost it, no less,
and the folks from the press, they all think that the Prez ––
by the way, do you want some Froot Loops?

The press can't believe that they all have to leave
and it's left them confused and irate.
But the Prez turns around and their spirits rebound
and you can't hear a sound – but their hopes are unfounded:
"Folks, on your way out, shut the gate."

End of Part 9

And then he addresses the folks of the press:
"Well thank you, dear friends, for all coming.
Let's do it again. Every now and then.
That's it. See ya then. Not quite sure when."
And he leads Timmy offstage, while humming.

"So come on inside." Tim quivers with pride
with the presidential hand on his shoulder.
"And bring your recorder. Tim, all them reporters
their thinking's disordered. They knew what they oughta
at your age, but then they got ... older.

"Don't mean to be intrusive, but d'you want an exclusive?"
"You bet!" says young Timmy Mundine.
"OK, follow me to the Oval TV
Room, just you and me (and an agent or three)
and the scoop is for Kids magazine."

Sorry, I've been a bit brain tired with all the Book of Days work. I'll be back to kill the president ... I mean, 'Kill the President' ... real soon.

With Tim on the stage, Irving asks "What's your age?"
and even the hardest hacks soften.
"I'm twelve, sir," Tim says, and, smiling, the Prez
asks "What part of the press?" "I'm from Kids," Timmy says.
Says Irving, "I read your work often!

Alarmed, now the Chief has to cut short his speech.
"Hey, bring that boy up to the podium!"
Tim's embarrassed but proud and thinks out aloud,
"Way cool!" Purvis shouts "Make way!" and the crowd
settles down to a low pandemonium.

Below is a faucet. Now, being a faucet, of course it
is dripping. Tim lands with a "thud!".
All as one, at the sound the press turns around
when the boy hits the ground. "He's not injured," says Brown.
"No blood. Just a whole lot of mud."

One arm round the wisteria, Tim jots down "Bacteria.
Just like in the ads. Bathroom walls."
Says the chief "Now listeria, that's a superior bacteria!
It's in the cafeteria –– " Just then the kid in the wisteria
loses his grip, slips and falls.

"So please don't walk out, can we just talk about
modal bacter, and a bit about worms?"
The hubbub dies down. Some ageing hack with a frown
tries to write it all down: "Today, dressed like a clown,
the Commander in Chief discussed germs."

Too late. Now the crowd is uneasy and loud,
about three notches short of hysteria.
"Dumb as a box of rocks," says a shock jock
and accidentally knocks Timmy right off his box,
so Tim climbs up the nearest wisteria.

Says Timmy "Much better!" Then Irving Lumwedder
spots the boy halfway up the wisteria.
"My friends of the press, do you like my head dress?
I can tell you're impressed. Now, my friends, let me stress,
today we are talking bacteria.

Lumwedder's aware of the buzz in the air
so he cranks up his decibel rate.
"I'd just like to mention ..." But the crowd is in tension.
"May I have your attention, please, Fourth Dimension.
I mean, men and women of the Second Estate!"

A frisson of stress ripples right through the press,
obsessed, more or less, to guess what they hear.
"Scuse me? What's he saying? This address is in mayhem!
It's a mess. Is he playing?" Backstage, wireless John Graham
whispers "Yes, Mister S", and presses his ear.

"See, there's this factor. The dang 'modal bacter'.
I don't wanna bushwhack ya ... but it's gotta be covered.
Hands up if it's new. Hmm ... OK ... quite a few.
Uh-huh. Golly. Whew! This ain't easy to do,
to explain all this stuff I've discovered.

"OK. Modal bacter. Hmmm ... ever seen how a tractor,
when it turns up the soil, how it ... OK. Nuh.
That ain't my meanin'. OK ... you know when it's rainin'
it fills up the drain and – nahh, that ain't explainin'.
But you follow me, don't you? Uh-huh??"

Note to Bloglet subscribers of the fishpond. I have tried and tried but can't see why the posts have not had line breaks between the lines of each verse. It's odd, because line breaks work in the Wilson's Almanac Bloglet subs, and all the settings are identical. If I can find a way to fix this, I will, but it's got me stumped, sorry.

Please excuse this test:

Line break one
Line break two

Paragraph break one

Paragraph break two

"Now, my friends here we go, I want you to know
this ain't no press conference, not exactly.
It's a keynote address, you could say more or less,
and I'll give it my best, men and women of the press,"
says the President matter-of-factly.

The Prez clears his throat. "I'll depart from the notes
of my writers. Can we cope?
Heh heh, just like Lincoln," the President's winking,
"I know what you're thinkin', that Abraham Lincoln
wrote a speech on some old envelope."

The press liked his wit and giggled a bit.
"I couldn't find no letter," grins Irving Lumwedder,
"So I wrote down some stuff, on my sleeve – weren't too tough.
It's a bit 'off the cuff', heh heh, but enough."
The press is amused. Not so Hedda.

I wrote on September 4: "From today, I'll be posting here one verse at a time, so that subscribers can get them by email ..." What I meant to say was that I'll post them as they're written. If I happen to do more than one in a sitting, the emailed Bloglet subscription will reflect that.

I haven't done one since Monday as I've been a bit unwell and quite busy with lifeworld. Hopefully tomorrow. :)

Oh yeah ... I'm trying to work out how to get the Bloglet subs to be true to the line breaks in the poem. No good having them run on like prose ... even I can't read that.

For Timmy Mundine, from 'Kids' magazine'
today his career's culminated.
"Can't get any better," he thinks "there's Lumwedder!
And that looks like Hedda. But where are her feathers?
I spose that she ain't 'nitiated."

New method of posting new verses
My aim is to post new verses of Kill the President here on average at least one per day. Some days I'm unable to post, so I try to keep up the average by doing more when more time's available.

From today, I'll be posting here one verse at a time, so that subscribers can get them by email (see Bloglet subscription form in the left-hand column). The way I was doing it before was to creat a 'Part', then add to it progressively. That method doesn't allow updates to be emailed out – once a post has been emailed, that's it and no updates are recorded. Confused yet?

So the normal blog entry method will now be followed. Most days, subscribers will get a verse sent to them. But I recognise that that causes some difficulties in reading here in the fishpond (like reading standing on your head).

To get around that problem, every few days I will update the page on my website where I have the whole poem written out in the normal order, from top to bottom like any other poem. There's a link to that page in the left-hand column as well, and for those who wish to bookmark it, it's http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/poetry15.html.

Kill the President

Part 8

The media assembling, Lumwedder resembling
Sitting Bull, now a sheer disbelief –
nay, horror – descends on the women and men
of the press, and just then, a hush happens when
he strides in with 'Hail to the Chief'.

The folks of the press all attempt to suppress
gasps and laughter. "Is he a Mohican?"
asks a man from AP. "Chickasaw, looks to me"
says Ms NBC. "Shhh!!!" says an agent. "It's Cree."
Says Irving, "Mah fellow Americans ..."

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 7

Two forty-five and the garden's alive
with the hum and the buzz of the press:
CNN, NBC, Business Week and AP,
Asia Times, ABC, Melbourne Age, MTV,
Reuters Deutschland, Tulsa World, CBS.

Yes, the whole box and dice of the whole Fox, and nice
to see independent media represented:
there's a journal Murdoch's tried to buy out for Fox,
but this boy on the box has hung onto his stocks.
Every takeover bid 'Kids' has prevented.

'Kids' is a monthly, the Brinkley and Huntley,
the Woodward and Bernstein, Fallaci,
the Peter Arnett of the under-12 set,
and there never was yet journalistic cadet
like Tim, tip-toes 'neath the press glitterati.

In back of the podium Irving's in odium,
being held in opprobrium by the speechwriting crew.
"Four minutes to three, where the hell can he be?"
says Dan "How can we write a speech when all he
does is glance for a minute or two?

"And we had to toil on a speech about soil!
What more can he do to unnerve us?"
The other speech guys all agree with Dan Wright,
"There he is!" says Chuck Fleiss, "Jeezus, so many spies."
(Their affectionate name for "the Service".)

"My God, look at that!" chuckles Chuck, "Check the hat!
The Chief is a damn Cherokee."
"No, Chuck," chuckles Dan, "I'm sure it's Cheyenne."
Then a Secret Service man, who's been listening, says "Man,
you crew is crazy. That head dress is Cree."

"Who cares if it's Pawnee, Kickapoo or damn Shawnee."
Dan's fuming: "If he thinks that he's Tonto ––"
With earphone in ear Agent Graham appears,
and looking severe: "Wright! Fleiss! Over here!
The Chief wants the soil speech – and pronto!"

"Hey, don't get uptight," says speechwriter Wright,
"He's mounting the podium, man.
Too late for it now, so don't have a cow ...
look, he's taking a bow. He's starting to speak now.
Let's go hear the Great Man," says Dan.

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 6

"OK," says the Chief "so, boys, what's the brief?"
The speechwriters shuffle and squirm.
"So where are they, guys, your elegant lies?
Words that mesmerize, words that help to disguise
what we've done in our term. What was that about 'worm'?"

Speechwriter Dan Wright looks a little uptight:
"'Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.'
Shelley's words, Mr Pres." "Well Dan," Irving says
"Dan, that's why I am the Pres, and why Shelly ... why she's
still on the switchboard on 80 a day.

"But ... it ain't bad, ain't bad ... hmmm, ain't too bad at all.
I like what it says about clay!
Dan, get me stuff about soil." "Sir? Stuff about soil?
And not about oil?" "No Dan, soil, not oil.
From now on it's soil – and decay.

"Alright, you speech guys, from today, no more lies.
Listen up and get wise, things have changed.
At 3 o'clock today, I got somethin' to say,
on soil. And decay. So waddya say?
Guys, waddya think?" They think "So it's true. He's deranged."

Laughs Irving, "Hey hey! Gotta get on my way!
Let's meet before 3 in the Garden."
He skips on his way and Wright notices Graham,
Agent John Graham, in a whisper he's saying
in his lapel "Tail the Chief? Beg your pardon?"

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 5

"Irving," says Hedda in the john to Lumwedder,
'I'm worried, you're actin' so strange.
Oh, it's not just the hat, or what you did to the cat
of that nice diplomat. We got over that ––"
"Darlin' I ain't gone deranged ... I've just changed."

"Just changed? Oh, no, honey, you been actin' real funny.
Even Maria, she said you've gone weird.
She says you just stare. If you're having an affair! ––"
"No Hedda! I swear! I just ... stare in the air ...
or at ... writin'." "(Lord, it's worse than I feared.)

"You been tootin' again? You messin' with cocaine?
I'm tellin' you plain, you no-brainer ––"
"Honey, let me explain. There ain't no cocaine
and no maryjane. And my brain ain't insane.
If you ask me, I've never been saner.

"Look, darlin', look here. No, in the mirror, see here.
Do you see it? In the mirror? Ain't it queer?"
"Irving, what you sayin'? You sayin' your grayin'?"
"Well, sorta. Decayin'. Yeah, that's it, decayin'.
Hey! Purvis and Graham, come in here!

"Good. Purvis and Graham, come in, we ain't prayin'.
That's it, good, now don't be afraidy.
Now, what did you say? Graham, just the other day.
Purvis, you saw the decay. I just want you to say
what you said then ... please tell the First Lady."

Nothing in the Service trained Cleatus Merle Purvis
for whatever the President was playing.
"Well, sir ... decayin' ..." Then butts in John Graham,
"I remember him saying 'Mr President, decayin'
is natural, like a good chicken layin'.'"

The President quickens: "That's it!! Cleatus's chickens!
Exactly! The chickens! Precisely!!
I've been tryin' so hard and my security guard ...
my praetorian guard with his fine chicken yard,
what I stumble to say, he says nicely!

"Hedda, do you see? It's plain as can be!
It's sure clear to Johnny and Cleatus.
With something like that – here John, take my hat –
Hedda, something like that is where it's all at.
If we got it, no enemy can beat us!!

"Good! We're all one. Now, I gotta run.
I got a media conference at three."
And with that, and "What fun!" he turns and he runs
out the door, then he comes quickly back in "Say, hun,
where's that hat? Thanks! Gotta look good for TV!!"

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 4

Come one, and come all, to the great Dining Hall,
First Lady, two maids and a few
PR's of the day, an Appointments PA,
an Ointments PA and three RQTJ's
(and nobody knows what they do).

Whatever their job is, they brighten the lobbies
and halls of the house of the Presidents
(this Castle of Common, this Home of the True Man,
the True Man and Woman, of the Rights of the Human).
Your typical American residence.

"President Lumwedder – where is he?" asks Hedda
Lumwedder, to Graham and Purvis.
"In the Oval Bathroom," says Purvis, "... I assume.
Every day around noon he hides in that room –– "
"And may'am," interrupts Graham, "we're nervous

'cause Purvis and me, we go get him, you see,
at one on the dot – it's an order.
But the last month or so, he's been ... well ... you know ...
kinda ... reluctant ... to go, in the middle of his ... show –– "
"His show?" "Yes may'am. His camcorder."

"What the hell are you sayin'?! Purvis, tell me what Graham –
what the Sam Hill he's sayin'! Is he queer?
A camcorder? Like ... pictures? Oh Lordy, that's rich!
You damn sons o' bitches! You say he takes pictures?
Of what?!" "... Of hisself. In the mirror."

"What – nekkid?" "No, may'am," says Agent John Graham.
"Not nekkid? Well thank Jeeeezuz!" laughs Hedda.
"Indian suit," mumbles Graham. "Say what?!" "Indian, may'am.
He's taken to playin' like a Injun, and prayin' –
he's been prayin' a lot, in them feathers."

Now, this First Lady never was one who would ever
make a fuss like an Eleanor or Hillary,
or even like Nancy, be seen to get antsy.
She's nothing too fancy, a bit of a pansy –
but when she explodes ... field artillery!

"Camcorder, you say. And a show. Every day.
Well I'll give him a show, and that's that!
Stand aside, let me through, I know what to do –– "
"And what will you do?" whispered Irving "To who?"
John salutes. "Mr President! (Sir ... your Geronimo hat.)"

"I'm partial to these feathers," smiles Irving Lumwedder
with the air of a saint. "Yup, they're stayin'."
Says Hedda, "Lumwedder, you can't wear them feathers!
Your head's sick. Well I never!" "Hedda, I never felt better.
Come into the john, I'll explain."

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 3

"Just a tad redder" says First Lady Hedda
to her hairdressers Chanteuse and Kevin.
"Last week the Chief said 'Better dyed red than dead'
(or something he said). Oh, he wasn't in bed,
he musta waked up 'fore eleven.

"He's sure actin' funny, I declare – oh, say, honey
not so tight now! You'll make me go bald!
Do you think that I'm grayin'? You know, he's been sayin' –– "
"Scuse – 'scuse me, may'am," says SS John Graham,
"May'am, 'scuse me, the President called.

"He asked could you come to the Lunch Hall at one."
Here Hedda Lumwedder seems pleased.
"Thank you ... thanks, Johnny. Oh dear, lookit honey.
Say, don't it look funny, this color's all runny –
do you think that this curl should be teased?"

To be continued

Kill the President

Part 2

The pink glow of dawn lights the Rose Garden lawn
and streams through the Rumpus Room curtain.
The President seems to be lost in a dream
and his reveries seem in his Time magazine ...
though with Irving it's hard to be certain.

It's really unnerving how President Irving
Lumwedder, for what seems like ages,
the mighty Commander-in-Chief of the land,
with Time on his hands and countenance bland
is staring at one of the pages.

It isn't the "Re-views", the US or World News
that captures the Head of the Nation;
not the Op-Ed, nor Features, nor beautiful creatures
on advertisement beaches, nor one of his speeches
that holds him in rapt fascination.

"Well, dang me!" he mutters, his spirit now flutters
as he stares in a manner approving.
(Let the critics repent of their hearts made of flint,
for his eyes fairly squint at a page of hard print –
not cartoons.) "Dang! These guys are moving"

For the first time, Lumwedder has noticed the letters
and numbers alive on the page.
A K kicks a goal over H, and the hole
of an O is a bowl of Froot Loops, or bread roll,
or a ring – and thus he's engaged

for five or ten minutes – he's quite lost within it,
abandoned to truths newly seen.
"A fairground of letters!" laughs Irving Lumwedder,
"Why, hell, this is better than TV – much better!
And it's all in this Time magazine."

The Prez asks himself "Does it work somewhere else?
Or only in Time magazine?
Let's see? What's this book? Hmmm ... 'I'm Not a Crook'.
OK, let's take a look, it might work in this b –– "
"Meester President, do you want me to clean?"

"Oh shit! I mean ... sure. Didn't hear the door!"
"Ees OK sir, I do it manana."
"No, come in, Maria. Now listen, see here,
do you see this, Maria? Do the letters seem queer?"
"No sir. Aiiyy! You sit in banana?!"

"Goddang it, I'm sorry." "Ees OK, no worry.
And the Froot Loops, you finished them, si?"
"Yes, thank you my dear. But listen, Maria,
just look over here. Do you see something queer?"
"In the White House I never queer see."

Says the President "I see" and Maria says "Si,
I see." "You do see?" "See ... sometheeng in it?"
"Si, Maria, see?" "No sir, I no see."
"Maria, I say 'see', not say 'si'" "Si, sir, si ... I no see."
... And so on for several minutes.

Kill the President

Rant-in-progress

Part 1

The First Lady sleeps, President Lumwedder creeps
to the fridge for a snack at midnight.
Froot Loops in a bowl, a banana, bread roll,
so ... down the mouth hole with little control,
and everything’s feelin' … alright!

That amiable grin, that milk on his chin,
his customary ease with bananas,
the President's proud, "I ain't one of the crowd" –
he says it aloud – "I ain't one of the crowd,
and no one can fill these pajamas.

"I'm Irving Lumwedder, ain't nobody better.
Man, I'm smokin'!! That's nuthin! I'm bitchin!
I'm loaded with sass, I'm the toppest of brass!
I'm the greatest, I'm gas, I'm jumpin' Jack Flash,
I'm the Chief of the damn Oval Kitchen!

"The hell did I say? It's the U.S.of A!
I'm boss of the whole goddamn nation!
I'm King of the Heap! I ain't even asleep!"
Then, not even a peep, on tip-toes he creeps
to the Oval Room of Relaxation.

He pulls up a seat and he puts up his feet
on the Presidential voting machine.
Then with a "Oops!!" he wipes up some Loops
and then "Double oops! Watch out for the snoops!"
And he picks up a Time magazine.

The snoops make him nervous, the damn Secret Service,
and one's stuck his head in the door:
"Everything OK, Mr President?" "Fuckin' 'A',
bet your life, AOK! Never better! OK!
Go do what you was doin' before."

"Ten-four, Mr Prez", the SS guy says,
"So … goodnight sir … but just one last thought –– "
"Uh huh?" says Lumwedder. "Sir, hadn't I better
maybe get you a sweater?" Says Lumwedder "No sweater,
but you could help me … I think my foot's caught."

In the days when Cain with Abel played,
a resolution on the Left was made:
Oppose the war, support the troops.
And thus, with many twists and loops,
the dialectic insurmountable,
the working man unaccountable,
the Left has pimped through many a war
the working man as Capital's whore,
protected from the critic's eye
by mighty ideology.
"No jobs but war exist", they say,
these Marxists of a former day.
And yet, and yet, I smell a rat
parading in a soldier's hat.
Soldier: even if it's just desk clerk,
please find yourself some honest work.

How many soldiers does it take to change a lightbulb?
Five. One to stick the enemy's testicles in the socket, three to cheer and one to take photos.

And ever and ever the global ropes,
and visionaries full of hope
and knowledge, full their eyes,
but shut by world and doubt and lies.
The spark is lost amid the blaze
but eyes adjust to tell these days.

Have you ever stood on a riverbank like an old Richard Nixon
just wondering where this hatred of the millions comes from?
No, I haven't either.
But I know they hated him before Watergate.
Poor Richard. Hiss was guilty after all.
Have you ever tied a worm to your line
with your back to a wide river
and thought about the fishpond back home?
Have you fallen in love with the blazing western sky?
When heaven is fanned by a flaming angel wing
falling from above to below.
Have you seen horizons no one will care about when you tell them?
The men that run Shanghai
don't want a city for human beings, they want a skyline.
They're not coming to my horizon. I won't ask them.
Have you ever glanced up at a few families in the picnic grounds
and wanted to say
"I'm not trying to be picturesque. I'm really fishing. This is really paradise."
Have you ever been on the river
on a stinkin hot full moon night
and heard the chorus of the cattle?
Have you heard a plover chase a sea-eagle, screaming like an angry fishwife?
Have you seen little Jack, aged about 7, jigging for herrings?
I bet he's thinkin, "When I'm a man
I won't be like that old bloke.
That bloke can't catch fish, money or women".

Fishing the Bellinger River at Mylestom
It comes surprising, like a swamp, just when the tide is slowing
the last half hour before the high, while you're looking west
along your line, back to the coast, you face the way it's going.
Behind you creeps the sludge from last week's floods, and then the river rests.

It wasn't brown a week ago, not when the rain was pouring,
not for four or more highs and lows. In fact it's never clearer.
The first few tides are bright and high, the river beach flowing
three feet deep, the water sweet, the beach become the river ...

Thirty minutes of despair
is highly recommended;
wet the pillow, curse the air
until your hope is mended.

I stepped to the sea for St Lawrence's tears
but no Perseid showers were falling;
not even in the fishpond, inspected close as I might;
no ripple. No showing. No movement. No calling.
It's not his time to weep.
The first quarter moon is not at fault.

So, great is this sign, with the waxing and my
illumined delight in this vault –
this precious, this brightly dark vault.
No tears show tonight, for the immanent light
of Selene overreaches my vault.

No singularity. Moody waxing of moon.
Wu wei. Such sweetness. No fault.

Don't allow to obscure Selena this darkling Ozymandias;
the speck is not the eye and very soon the speck will pass.
Retain the canopy in view, the clearing looking glass;
the sky tonight and future skies are better than those passed,
for when the beard is hoary then each moon exceeds the last.
Sail upon the nightsky, lashed to the mast.

Inhale and look, the world is all within your length and breadth,
yet the worldly plane's a hand that holds a solitary breath.
The ones who have no grief now bay to put to cruel death
their children's murderers, whose martyrdom's assured.
The devil's printer now delivers not an honest word.
This is the scene I set, the street I sweep before,
dear human being. This is no game. I come to talk of war.

We should never have named Time.
If we are to embrace and leave the ashes
and start the starward climb
we need to unname Time.
I'm here to de-clock rhyme.
I'm here to defrock Time.

And power beyond all power, the floating speck of blue.
Deep below the lily pads the whole is part in view.
Beneath the ripples, though the seas, and ever, through, and through:
Renew, and live, it calls, renew. Renew, renew, renew!