How Do I Love Me

Barack Obama, channeling his inner Elizabeth Barrett Browning, riffs on her love poem to her husband, and composes a paean to the love of his life, himself.

How do I love me, let me count the ways
I have set the moral standard
For  these many, many days
I have torn apart the races
Into warring factions now
To the point where Black Lives Matter
Will no longer scrape and bow
To the white man’s whims and fancies
As I’ve boldly strode the stage
Of the world that I have mastered
I’m the marvel of the age
I have stuck it to Israelis
And the Philippines I’ve swept
Into the maws of China
And then afterward I wept
I have given nukes to Mullahs
Who have sworn to kill us all
And the Turks have now left NATO
As we watch the Mid-East fall
Into catastrophic killings
And the millions who must flee
Into Europe and the US
Where the killers are now free
To slay innocents and children
In the holy name of God
And my people are behind me
For they do not think it odd
I have won our wars by losing
To the loser goes the spoils
And I’ve seen to it that Ukraine
Rests serene in Russia’s coils
I’ve killed tyrants like Khaddafi
An unguarded consulate
Where I left young men on rooftops
And let God decide their fate
Yes my life has been amazing
Over all did I preside
As I’ve led the West I hated
To their death by suicide

Birthers

In Monday’s debate between Trump and Hillary, Lester Holt, of the Democratic Party press, resurrected the question of Barack Obama’s birthplace, as if it had the slightest relevance to the 2016 presidential race. But that is all they have, and so they use it in desperation, believing that the American people care about what Donald Trump, a private citizen in 2008 or 2011, thought about it, since probably about a hundred million Americans in 2008 believed Obama was not a citizen of the United States. And why would not Donald Trump or any other American in 2008 question the history of a man the country knew nothing about? Consider – we knew, from Obama’s own words, that his father was a Kenyan communist and his mother gave him away to his grandparents who sent him to be mentored by a radical American communist named Frank Marshall Davis, whom Obama described as his real father. We knew only that Obama came to Chicago where he was an Alinsky communist community organizer, spent twenty years in the pews of a rabid anti-American preacher named Jeremiah Wright, and became a fast friend of American terrorists, Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, founders of the terrorist organization The Weather Underground, responsible for the deaths of two policemen and the bombings of a number of government buildings. His entry form to elementary school in Indonesia listed him as Barry Soetero, Muslim, He reportedly attended Punahoe, and elite school, but none of his supposed schoolmates, when interviewed in 2009 0r 2010, remembered him. He reportedly attended both Harvard and Columbia, but no school grades are available, and as far as I know no classmate from either school has ever come forward. The man was and is a mystery, an unknown who parachuted in and with the help of the left-wing media and unnamed sponsors became the president of the United States. And now the Democrats, fearing Trump’s attempts to dislodge a percentage of the monolithic Democrat black vote, and determined to keep the black vote in their pockets, are screaming that Donald Trump was once a Birther, notwithstanding that it was the Hillary Clinton campaign in 2008 that first raised the question. But there are more questions to be answered than where he was born, and perhaps when Donald Trump is president a reporter or two may feel it safe to look into the possibly Manchurian background of Barry Soetero/Barack Hussein Obama.

Just how did he gain
That white slave-built house
And who was it that
Had put him in there
And who really was
His mother’s real spouse
But where was he born
I really don’t care
But is he malign
Or stupid and slow
Is this now the time
No crisis to waste
Yes, these are the things
That I want to know
Is Manchuria
The question erased

Broken Arrows

We all knew that Lester Holt would never ask Hillary about Benghazi, bout obstruction of justice in destroying emails after a subpoena had been issued demanding they be produced, about classified documents left out in the open for all to see, about the Clinton Foundation or about the Pay to Play selling of the United States State Department. We knew Lester Holt would ask Donald Trump about his tax returns and about his supposed birther sentiments and why he says such mean things about women, as if any of them had any relevance to the issue of which of the two is best qualified to be president. We knew it, Trump’s staff knew it, and Trump knew it. His staff prepared a quiver full of sharpened arrows to fire at her, and he was prepped and re-prepped in preparation for the questions, warned repeatedly not to get tangled up in the weeds designed to hurt him, but the minute the questions arose he forgot all the planning and grabbed the tar baby, spending most of his time in the debate defending things that need not have been defended. And so, having grabbed the tar baby he never mentioned Benghazi or the Clinton Foundation or any of the many criminal activities that would have nailed her to the floor. And at the end of the wasted ninety minutes Trump’s quiver was still full of arrows, with an untouched and untroubled Hillary smiling and waving. I found myself wishing they had sent up Newt Gingrich as pinch-hitter. Had they done so the only quivering would have been done by the body on the floor.

He could have nailed her to the floor
He could have ended it for sure
But no, the baby made of tar
Enveloped him too long by far
The arrows sharpened by his staff
No stone unturned on his behalf
The bow of yew so sweetly hewn
He picked it up and laid it doon
The tide not taken at the flood
Is often paid for with the blood
Of those who fight for honor’s sake
And broken arrows sorrows wake

Slaves

The descendants of Negro slaves freed by the deaths of three hundred and twenty thousand young white men fighting under the banner of the United States to destroy the ugly institution of Southern slavery, descendants who are now rich beyond avarice because they are skilled at playing a game, have taken to spitting on the flag that freed their ancestors from slavery, thereby revealing the nature of the Negro slave.

The Arab slaver’s with us still
He gathers Blacks against their will
And takes them to the market square
To stand in chains for buyers there
For centuries this was the case
The fortune of the Negro race
The Middle Passage packed like spoons
Into the ships from barracoons
To work the South’s plantation fields
For cotton, sorghum, sugar yields
Until three hundred thousand men
Died to destroy the slave filled pen
They fought under the starry flag
And died from likes of Braxton Bragg
And now upon that flag you spit
You will not stand, and so you sit
Your actions show that you behave
Like what you are, a born-to slave

Maybe It’s All In My Mind

My paranoia is well under control most of the time, but even so it seems it’s getting worse. At the University of California at Berkeley, quite possibly the most radical Leftist Progressive school in the United States, Muslim and other minority students viciously harass and attack Jewish students without consequence from the administration. The NFL is losing TV viewers because some players have fallen for the SJW and Black Lives Matter propaganda that white cops are out to kill young black men and so to show solidarity some NFL millionaires decided to disrespect the flag, to the anger of white people who decided not to watch the games, and NFL commissioner Roger Goodell praises the guys who piss on the flag, while knowing that if it continues and expands he risks the NFL becoming a regional game again, with no national television ratings and therefore no money to pay the millionaires protesting the terrible lot of the black man. But maybe it’s just me.

I look out and what do I find
Safe spaces are all underlined
Diverse kids to use
But not for the Jews
But maybe it’s all in my mind
A flag is why people can bind
Together to be of one kind
But Roger Goodell
Says he thinks it is swell
That piss on Old Glory’s designed
To focus the light on the grind
On those that the law left behind
Where white cops will kill
Young black men at will
But maybe it’s all in my mind

History Lesson

In the beginning years of the late American Republic, German immigrants settled in the mountains of western North Carolina, and named their settlement Wachovia, and their capitol city Charlotte, after an obscure German princess. The Wachensians, as they called themselves, set about building a prosperous and peaceful life in the new world. Over time the demographics changed and Wachovia was no longer majority German. Shortly before the great race wars of the twenty-first century the American people elected as president an African American man, who by his words and actions, stoked the latent fires of racial conflict dormant for many generations. Following the lead of the black president, racist black organizations began calling for and bringing about the deaths of police officers, leading to the open race war that began with the siege of Charlotte, after a policeman shot an African American man who had drawn a gun on him. The largely African American city of Charlotte erupted in violence. Police and National Guardsmen were killed, as were many armed rioters, arsonists and looters. The violence spread to the major cities of Baltimore, Philadelphia and St. Louis. Cities burned and whites were dragged from their cars and murdered. The riots were contained, though not until after there were many thousands killed and wounded. Low grade warfare continued, and a nervous and fearful white majority elected a strong man in the national election of 2020. Iron fist force finally brought the race wars under control, and a year later the president declared himself President for Life.

And so it ended, as all things must
The constitution ground to dust
The rule of law a notion scorned
No memory, the past unmourned
The strong in charge, the weak on knees
With bird pecked bodies hung from trees
But all was calm, the race war gone
The country that had at the dawn
Been free and lighted up the sky
Had been attacked and left to die

J. Edgar Hoover

For almost a hundred years the FBI has enjoyed an unalloyed reputation for honesty, integrity and a clean separation from politics. The Obama administration and the Obama Justice Department has destroyed that reputation in a few short years, beginning with Attorney General Eric Holder refusing to prosecute Black Panther thugs who threatened white voters with baseball bats and forced them to leave the polling place without voting, to Attorney General Loretta Lynch and FBI Director Jim Comey who refused to indict Hillary Clinton for massive national security violations, lying to federal agents, obstruction of justice and other offenses despite overwhelming evidence of her guilt, evidence the FBI Director himself laid out in detail before stunningly announcing he would not recommend an indictment. Had J. Edgar Hoover been in charge Hillary Clinton would have been wearing an orange jump suit that very day. But the Justice Department is so corrupt that they don’t even care about the optics of the event, they care only that they do what is best for the Democratic Party and for the leaders of the Democratic Party. The FBI will be a long time regaining the trust of the American people.

We scratch our heads, J. Edgar who?
Oh yes, J. Edgar Hoover
When G-Men shot the bad guys down
They stayed dead, not one mover
The FBI was without peer
The politicians quavered
Before the law and came to fear
The man who never wavered
From his devotion to the law
Despite the rank of others
Who thought all inside straights they’d draw
Because they all were brothers
The FBI is tarnished now
Obama has corrupted
All that he’s touched now dark and foul
The Bureau interrupted
Their work now nothing but a part
Of politics and movers
Obama has torn out its heart
No more J. Edgar Hoovers

Exit Music

Everyone picks out the music he wants at his funeral, but my exit this world playlist is so full of terrific songs that when they play it I’ll probably get carried away. The problem with putting your exit music together beforehand is that you just might live another thirty years or so, and nobody at the funeral knows any of the songs. I spoke to an acquaintance recently and he said he tried to keep his playlist up to date, but thought most people would remember Lothar And The Hand People even thirty years later.

My iPod’s full of stuff, he said
Musicians from the past
I know that most of them are dead
And know their stuff will last
My doctors say I’m good to go
Another thirty years
But all my ducks are in a row
To satisfy my fears
That something might go very wrong
And all will silent be
I will not go without a song
That’s why It is, you see
That my best suit is cleaned and pressed
Instructions typed and filed
I know just how I will be dressed
My playlist all compiled
My friends and family sit bored
As music’s softly played
But just the same I ask the Lord
His justice be delayed

Pissing On The Flag

Several members of the Philadelphia Eagles football team, following the lead of Colin Kaepernick, pissed on the flag during the playing of the National Anthem on Monday Night Football. I suppose we shouldn’t be too harsh on them, they are not especially well versed in the reality of political life and don’t know that the entire schtick of pissing on the flag was instigated by Black Lives Matter, a George Soros imprint, in their effort to divide the United States into two warring factions, one black and one white, the better to hasten the dissolution of the hated enemy. They do not realize that by pissing on the flag they are pissing on their teammates, who have no desire to infuriate the white people who buy the tickets to the games and religiously watch all the televised games. What will happen to the NFL when a significant percentage of white people, pissed off by all the pissing on the flag, stop going to the games and  stop watching the games on TV? The answer is, Eagles fans will still go to

Eagles games and Bears fans will still go to Bears games, but they will not watch TV games unless their team is in it. And that means the NFL is back to the 1940s and 1950s, a regional game, with regional payrolls and income. No longer will NFL players make millions of dollars a year to play a game. Despite knowing all this, NFL Comissioner Roger Goodell today praised the protesters. What I do not understand is why coaches and management don’t explain to the players who piss on the flag that they are pissing on themselves and their teammates.

Pissing on the flag is now de riguer
And guys who do it think that it will get
Some social justice with the proper vigor
And find it just blows back and gets you wet
You fall in with the Black Lives Matter haters
And think it’s noble to protest the flag
But soon you’re working nights as full-time waiters
Because it’s not the dog that’s gonna wag

Absolutely Deplorable

Hillary Clinton has just, perhaps inadvertently, spilled the beans. Her kind of people view my kind of people as degenerate, racist, homophobic right-wing terrorists, intent on smearing honest leftists, who only want what is best for all of us, with lies and worse. I may be a degenerate, probably have been since subscribing to Playboy sixty years ago, but I reject the charge that I am a racist, a homophobe or a right-wing terrorist. I do admit I am intent on removing the left from positons of power so that honest people can live in peace again without being subjected to the likes of Hillary Clinton.

Deplorable is what she said
A word that makes me shake my head
Disgraceful might have been the word
She meant but that’s not what we heard
A hoity-toity word was used
Her arrogance made her confused
Deplorable though, on its face
Suggests that we are a disgrace
To all who think the left is right
So shameful best kept out of sight
Degraded and debased are we
Beneath her, she can plainly see
Unworthy, horrid guttersnipes
An orange suit with prison stripes
Are what we need, what we deserve
And yet, when graded on a curve
We’re not as bad as those who shake
The plum tree till the guilders break
Or leave brave men out on a roof
To die and that is just the troof
As children say and cross their hearts
Yes I’ll be glad when she departs
Stage left to glory in her wealth
Enjoying everlasting health