The Tranny And The Ladyboy

Who would have imagined that the pressing question of the day is, Who is more representative of American culture, the Tranny or the Ladyboy? To answer this question I spoke to one of each. The Ladyboy was a good looking young man, though I felt a more muted lipstick would better compliment his complexion. The Tranny said he hadn’t started the surgeries yet but was looking forward to completion of the process and was a real woman and looked like Michelle Obama.

A woman real, the tranny said, and though some think I’m nuts
I cannot wait to see results when surgeon makes his cuts
I’ll be a woman like Michelle, vagina and a womb
And all my kids will grow up bright and each have his own room
A woman yes, said ladyboy, who’s bitchy to her friends
And never will apologize or seek to make amends
You only want to shower with those homely high school girls
And thinking you’ll be welcomed hiding there behind your curls
Now listen here, the tranny screeched, you’ve overstepped your bounds
A woman never is a bitch unless she has good grounds
And furthermore, dear ladyboy, said tranny with a sneer
For bitchiness there is no one like someone who is queer
I left them there and turned around to find them holding hands
And crying for they knew their lives were as the windblown sands

The Poetry Of Time

Time is bitter-sweet, a lingering taste that always takes us back to where we started. The world seems intent on sliding back into the scum filled pond from which we emerged.

Of all the wonders of this world we had but one to choose
Which would it be, the grandest or the one we never use
The one we take for granted as we make our upward climb
From pond scum to the mud flats in the poetry of time
We came upright not long ago believing that in man
The universe had waited for us before time began
Impressed we were with what we were and what we would become
We colonized our minds with notions that we were the sum
Of all that was and all that would be far into the night
That darkness would be overcome by man’s bright holy light
And so it was we slowly drifted back into the slime
From which we came, for we saw not the poetry of time

Riding The Rainbow

The Clintons are not like you and I. The law means nothing to them, they ride the rainbow of the privileged, encased in a prism of their own making, surrounded by the brilliant colors of their magnificence. They expect, and get, deference and acquiescence, obeisance and adulation. They do not break the law, they are the law. The election of Hillary Clinton will indeed usher in catastrophe, but it will be a lasting one, the destruction of the United States in its current form, not a prelude to a better democracy.

For every rainbow, I am told
Has at its end a pot of gold
The Clintons care nary a jot
For country, honor, just that pot
So deeply steeped in massive crime
They know they never will do time
They sell themselves for highest bid
Top secret documents are hid
On servers everyone can read
With Chinese millions for the deed
I’d rather have as president
Some stooge a ward heeler has sent
Than have the Clintons to decide
To take us on their rainbow ride

Reality

I spoke to Reality just the other day and she said she was getting tired of having to clean up peoples’ messes all the time. I asked if there was something we could do to ease her labors, and she said, yes, stop listening to people who claim they know what is best.

They claim they know what you should eat
What you should wear, what you should think
What you should say, accept defeat
What you should do and what to drink
These people are a full blown curse
They’re viperous, extremely vile
And vaporous and what is worse
They are to everyone a trial
If you but heed to what I say
Let my reality be guide
Then all is well in every way
I know you won’t, but God I’ve tried

A Philadelphia Story

In the midst of the DNC email chaos of the Democratic National Convention, the Philadelphia Police Union protests the list of speakers at the convention. Listed to speak are widows and family members of black guys the cops were forced to shoot in the line of duty, all of whom, according to Democrats, were innocent victims of racist cops intent on cold-blooded murder. The police are outraged that no widows or family members of the cops assassinated in Dallas or Baton Rouge will be asked to speak at the convention. But what did the police expect? Also listed to speak at the Democratic national convention are Josef Stalin, Mao, Saul Alinsky and the acapella choir of Black Lives Matter singing their big hit Oooh Baby Kill Me A Cop.

The Democrats convene in Mr. Franklin’s Countrie Towne
Where Liberty resides in a bronze bell
Where peaceful folk live side by side no matter black or brown
And vote for Dems who should be in a cell
The gavel pounds, the noise abates, the nomination made
Jim Comey says she’s guilty but is cleared
The vote is on and delegates are very keen to trade
Their photographs of Huma with the beard
The vote goes down, its Hillary, loud cheering fills the hall
A figure stands and Bubba walks on stage
The restive crowd is stunned to find that Bubba’s won it all
While Hillary is run off in a cage
Obama rises from his seat, a shouted, ”It’s the One!”
And says he’ll run again if it’s his fate
He says that after three or maybe four terms then he’s done
He’ll save the country if it’s not too late
Old Bernie screams he has the yoots and will not stand aside
Jim Comey takes the stage and calms the crowd
He says he’s found some emails that the Clintons tried to hide
And while I love him, Bubba’s not allowed
Bill Clinton said just little folk are bound by federal law
And with a quiver in his voice he urged
The delegates remember ’92 and what they saw
And hearing that the delegates fair surged
Toward an old man who stood alone, some paces out of view
Who slowly walked onstage to the surprise
Of all who thought that Hillary the unsecured but true
Would win by acclamation the great prize
To great applause and roaring cheers the old man raised his fists
In triumph as he promised all to win
A knight in shining armor striding boldly to the lists
Was Biden grinning broad his goofy grin

Is God An Architect?

There was a raging debate, at one time and in some circles, about the nature of God – was He an architect or a clockmaker. The Founders believed God was an architect, a designer who worked with mortal materials that adapted to changing circumstances, rather than a clockmaker who sets the clock in motion and then dismisses it from His mind. The architect, also as distinct from the clockmaker, may from time to time become dissatisfied with His work and decide to call in the demolition contractor.

The architect sees what he’s built
Is not what he envisions
And so without a trace of guilt
He orders demolitions
And with a shudder down she comes
Offending work demolished
With all reduced to tiny crumbs
The rusty and the polished
All heaped together in a pile
Of burning dust and rubble
The architect completes the file
Describing all the trouble
Caused by the chaos mortals make
Of all that He has planned for
Such chaos He is forced to take
Such measures He must stand for
Act humbly but with valor’d grace
Be cheerful in God’s beauty
And know that there will be a place
For those who live by duty

Empty Nurseries

The nurseries once filled with laughing children are now closed, the shades drawn, the cribs empty, for Western women, having heard the toxic siren song of feminism that unfortunately coincided with the development of the Pill, decided they would no longer submit their lives to the inconvenience of having and raising children. And so, the nurseries are empty of laughter and rhymes, school playgrounds are silent and abandoned, and in measurable time, if the nurseries do not begin to fill again, the countries of the West will die, as one by one their elderly die in nursing homes, alone and afraid, with no family to visit or mourn their deaths.

Where once the tiny room shown bright with cheer
With babies and small children in their beds
Where mothers held them close and held them dear
And stayed all night when sick to give them meds
There now are empty rooms with dark drawn shades
So that the sun may never see the gloom
Or hear the silence as the laughter fades
As one by one a small key locks the room
At menopause the childless women cry
And tear their flesh in anger at the way
They selfishly denied the reason why
Their destiny was children for the day
When they grew old and needed sons to care
And give them all the love that they once gave
And daughters to conceive and then to bear
A grandchild to stand by her lonely grave

A Man Can Always Dream

A Bulgarian man named Dinko Valev has annoyed ISIS to the extent of having a fifty thousand dollar bounty offered to anyone who will kill him. Whatever could he have done? It seems he acted in accordance with his Bulgarian heritage.

The Bulgars were a Turkic tribe who moved from place to place
Who moving West took up with Huns and settled down in Thrace
A peaceful folk who sometimes spent a quiet month or two
Studying for entrance to Constantinople U
The Central Asian horse tribes crossed the Volga then in strength
The Bulgars, Huns and Avars and the Slavs until at length
The Daddy of them all appeared, the Ottomans of course
Who found the Byzantines susceptible to men on horse
And as the Bulgars and the Slavs and Huns were horse tribes too
A mighty Caliphate was born and finally it grew
So strong it ruled the Great White Sea from Malta to the Horn
And Janissaries ruled the field though not of Othman born
But nothing lasts forever and the Caliphate was doomed
When Princip shot the archduke and the guns of August boomed
But Bulgars haven’t lost their thirst for danger and the prize
Of hearing enemies entreat for mercy with their cries
For ISIS offers fifty grand for Dinko Valev’s head
And set jihadis on his trail to see the man shot dead
Or maybe just behead him or set fire in a cage
What is it Dinko could have done to set off such a rage
Well Dinko is a migrant hunter, using dogs and guns
Along the Turkish border to stop dead these Muslim sons
From entering Bulgaria in what he sees as sport
Now ISIS wants him dead, defunct, expired, also mort
But Dinko cares not for the threat from ISIS and its ilk
For he remembers Sultans dressed in robes of flowing silk
And prancing snow white horses and the Janissary scream
Knowing nothing lasts forever but a man can always dream

L’audace

ISIS has struck again, this time in Nice, when a truck plowed through Bastille Day holiday revelers and killed and wounded over two hundred people. And yet France, despite repeated attacks and a mounting death toll of innocents, has not, with a stroke, eliminated ISIS and all its works. Is it because they have the army but not the will, or because they have the will but not the army? Or is it because the modern European State is incapable of defending itself out of lethargy, ideology or worse? What are we to make of the words of French Prime Minister Manuel Valls, immediately after the attack, that “France must learn to live with terrorism.” He did not say that France must fight, he did not say that France must utterly destroy the monsters, he said France must surrender and submit to children and the innocent being killed by Muslim murderers.

The French have a long military road
Of victories where marching armies strode
From ancient Gauls who sacked and burnt down Rome
To battles far and wide and close to home
Remember Austerlitz of golden sun
The Marne, and Compiegne and blood Verdun
Of Carillon and infantry in white
The golden lily banner midst the fight
Remember La Rochelle and fighting ships
And Marignano’s Austrian eclipse
And Borodino and the cry L’audace!
And the defiant words, They shall not pass!
What happened to the memories of the past
Have all resigned themselves that things don’t last
That history and honor are for fools
That battle glory is just food for ghouls
I won’t believe the French won’t rise and fight
And trample in the dust with French iron might
The murderers who taunt and rape and kill
Whose lust for Western blood they cannot fill
Destroy them root and branch, kill every one
And show them Austerlitz and blood red sun

Prewar Whisky

Turkey has long been an Islamic country, but now, with the failed coup, the terror is loosed and Erdogan will take the country further down the road to radicalization. The situation in the Middle East is changed, and we do not yet know to what degree. Will Turkey align itself with Iran? It is time to lay in your stock of prewar whisky. Bushmill’s is my drink of choice. On the rocks, with doritos and sharp cheese, late at night, an entertaining book on paleontology or the Crimean war to hand, the clock pushing two a.m. It is in these early hours of the dark that the furies appear, with their lurid tales of the horrors soon to come. It is then I believe the world is moving irreversibly toward ultimate chaos, despair and the death of nations, all of which could have been avoided had we only had the spine to stop the maniacs in their tracks when we had the chance. But we didn’t, despite their constant insistence that as soon as they had atomic weapons they would use them on us, which we have chosen not to believe. There may still be time, but that time is growing very short, which is why I have laid in my stock of prewar whisky.

The North Koreans test their missiles smug and unconstrained
With toothy smiles and goofy grins they tell us they are trained
On California while they work on missiles longer ranged
And in the White House all is calm, for nothing has been changed
In Teheran the mullahs sleep the sleep of honest men
They tell us they will kill us and they even tell us when
The White House says there’s naught to fear, it’s all a great big bluff
Designed to force the West to give them their share of the stuff
That we the West have stolen from the outer world so long
And missiles and atomic bombs are meant to redress wrong
The Turks have said democracy is not their chosen choice
That they prefer the word of Allah to a Western voice
And Erdogan sets out a radical Islamic State
And dreams of Ottomanic glory and the Caliphate
Meanwhile Islam kills at an even more alarming pace
The EU says that terrorism must assume its place
As part and parcel of the way we now must live our lives
That Allah and the Koran are how modern life derives
Its culture and its institutions and its death to Jews
And that is why I’m stocking up on Irish prewar booze