There can be no sects as looney
As the Shi’ia and the Sunni
Their hatred for their bro under the skin
Is intensified by fighting
Over whose inerrant writing
States correctly dancing Imams on a pin
These two brands of Islam folly
Never smile are never jolly
Except when chopping heads from infidels
Refugees from the Dark Ages
Sunnis think the Dervish sages
While the Shi’ia look to Imams hid in wells
The Republican Party seems destined to a Dickensian existence, a Party of Oliver Twists who, in a quavering voice and with tear dimmed eyes, forever beg the Democrats for more gruel. The Democrats, the Party of Fagin, continue to steal our liberty and to endanger the country, with the Artful Dodger played by Barack Obama.
Now reduced to such slim pickins’
With the Parties run by Dickens
Republicans have no one else to blame
But their soft as putty leaders
So that even Dickens readers
Can’t think of one Republican by name
Who stands up for the Bill of Rights
While Dems have lined up in their sights
The Constitution and the rule of law
Incumbency has made them weak
Of Dem crimes they will hardly speak
While ravens on Reid’s shoulders smile and caw
Yes the country’s changing, brother
And it looks like in another
Election cycle we will see the end
We’re the old last generation
Who still hold in veneration
The country’s values Dems can’t comprehend
And the GOP stands idle
With their hands not on the bridle
As Leftist propaganda fairly dinned
Yes the GOP is broken
Their protests a whining token
And we know that they’re just pissin in the wind
Tyrants often come to a bad end, as witness Mussolini and Ceausescu, both of whom enjoyed haranguing the crowd from a balcony, never seeing the end coming. The tyrant, even a so called democratic one like Obama, cannot see beyond his own self-glittering, all-absorbing persona. Dazzled by his own brilliance, Obama sees no danger to himself or his acolytes. There is nothing he cannot dispose of with a smile, a cool remark, a wave of his mighty hand. Obama will not end up like Ceausescu or Mussolini, though the White House does have a balcony.
None are so blind as will not see
The restless waters, dark’ning sky
The jagged rocks just off his lee
The people stirring with each lie
He pays no heed to mounting threats
Until the day of stark collapse
When he, who never had regrets
Sees mobs descend, and then perhaps
He’ll understand that all is lost
And he, whose every word been hailed
Now sees that he must bear the cost
Now that illusion’s light has failed
Incompetence is the default position of the human race. From the very beginning of this country, indeed from the beginning of history, the story of incompetence in high places is a story often told, with competence in eternally short supply. Alcibiades comes to mind, and Athens survived. General Pope comes to mind and the Union survived. We have had many mediocrities and incompetents for president, and the country has survived and even prospered. But this time it’s different. Obama is not incompetent. Obama is maliciously treasonous, and desires our destruction. Carl Bernstein, of the Washington Post, admitted, in print, many years after Watergate, that he brought down an American president in order to please his communist mother and father. Perhaps Obama’s motivation is similar; he wishes for our destruction in order to please the memory of his communist mother and father and his Muslim communist mentors. Whatever his motives, the issue of our survival as a democratic nation is growing seriously doubtful.
We’ve seen on this our continent
Vast hordes of the incompetent
From generals who threw their men away
To politicians who grew rich
By satisfying every itch
Possessed by drooling voters of the day
Incompetence is the default
Position of mankind’s gestalt
And thus the competent are rare indeed
But so far we have seen the light
In time to get things turning right
We seem to find the Man in time of need
But will we find the Man in time
To end Obama’s steady climb
Toward our destruction that’s his final goal
We’re fortunate that we’ve survived
Incompetence till O arrived
But now he’s set that black creped bell to toll
An open letter to Barack Hussein Obama:
Mr. President: In a recent speech describing the surrendering, or as you put it, closing down the war in Afghanistan as you closed down the war in Iraq, you said you are walking in the footsteps of Washington and Lincoln. If you are, you will need bigger shoes than the ones you’re wearing.
Those footsteps that you’re stepping in
Still glow with radiant light
Still shine to show us all the way
And guide us through the night
Those footsteps made by giants, sir
So deep with blood and tears
Will shine like sunlight for all time
Beyond the misty years
Those footsteps made by giants, sir
Those steps so deeply trod
Will not take kindly to men who
Dishonor man and God
Bowe Bergdahl, who deserted his post in a war zone and went over to the enemy, a crime that had gotten not a few guys a short length of rope and a handy tree, has been exchanged for five very dangerous Muslim jihad commanders, who will no doubt quickly resume their interrupted careers of killing Americans. The Obama administration claims that Bergdahl was a prisoner of war, and we were obligated to get him back to his country and his family. If I were a skeptic I would view their explanation with some caution. The Obama administration has been known to lie whenever it suits their convenience, and it looks like this is one of those times. You will recall that for any prisoners to be released required the okay from Congress, and It seems to me that releasing the five Muslim killers without even telling Congress let alone asking permission, was an Obama trial run to see if he could get away with breaking the law with impunity. He has now moved Congress out of the equation, and we can look for Obama to quickly return the remaining imprisoned Muslim killers to the battlefield.
I am so glad that I am not a skeptic
For if I were I’d surely be dyspeptic
But now that I believe White House pronouncements
I know that even lies are mere announcements
That mean the opposite of what they’re saying
Or else it’s just a game that they are playing
I knew whenever Carney made denials
That people everywhere just turned the dials
Now take the five guys just released to Qatar
Were I a betting man I’d take a flutter
On odds that all five guys rejoin the jihad
While our returned guy spurns the life that he had
As I recall he walked away and sought out
The Taliban when all his plans were thought out
He learned to speak the language of his new mates
So now the six guys going home are crewmates
We know the five guys will be bent on terror
Were I a skeptic I’d hope I’m in error
That people in the White House surely know that
Our guy returning home will one day show that
He spent five years in training for the day when
He’d come alive when Mullahs somewhere say when
But like I say my skeptic days are over
It may be that our guy was just a rover
Who wandered off until he was surrounded
By Taliban and surely was dumbfounded
The White House couldn’t know he’s turned now, could they?
They wouldn’t let a turncoat home now, would they?
Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl is a turncoat, a deserter, returned by Obama to the United States as a hero, an al Qaeda agent blending into American society, waiting for the word to complete his given task.
Obama’s White House, staffed with Leftist traitors
Beginning with the cool guy at the top
From very first been law eviscerators
And sown the seeds producing treason’s crop
How many of our guys are more deserving
Of heroes welcomes than this Bowe Bergdahl
A man the Left huzzahs for his deserting
His fighting comrades, country, and et al
Obama has not changed since first elected
When bowing to an Arab Muslim king
A president our enemies selected
Who promptly bent the knee and kissed the ring
It has been suggested that the military be allowed to win the wars but that the nation building should be turned over to civilian contractors, much like the British East India Company in the 19th century. An intriguing suggestion, but the British East India Company was dealing with rich old Maharajahs and not with a religious war of extermination Islam is engaged in against the West. We have not yet accepted this as fact, though most understand that it is so, deny it as they will. There is only one end to a religious war of extermination, and that is the extermination of one of the parties. At the moment only the Muslims understand this, and understanding it, prevail. What they don’t understand is that the West, specifically the United States, will not quietly and meekly acquiesce in its extermination, though acquiescence must seem inevitable to the Muslim religious warriors given the facts on the ground. They see their failures at Tour and Lepanto as temporary setbacks, and are determined to settle affairs with a weakened and weak willed West. The Muslim tide will roll in again, and they will be slaughtered, leaving the survivors to lick their wounds for another thousand years.
We deal not with a rich old Maharajah
But Muslim zealots who will gladly die
Just for the chance to kill us as we sit there
Believing that the warning signs all lie
We choose the side that looks to be the winner
But while they kill each other they both know
The time will come when Infidels are slaughtered
And friendship with the West is just a show
But when it comes the ending will be Roman
We make a desert and we call it peace
And leave survivors shaken and despairing
To wonder if their deaths will ever cease
And yes I know some say I’m bloody minded
That we must understand why we’re all dead
But history has shown there’s but one answer
And that’s to fill their hearts with blood and dread
I had a strange though trivial occurrence a few weeks ago. I had been doing my wash every week for some forty years, and always included seven short sleeve sport shirts. From time to time one of the shirts would come out of the dryer inside out, and much less frequently two would be inside out. In all that time there were never more than two shirts inside out in any one wash. Some weeks ago, however, I took the shirts out of the dryer and all seven were inside out. I thought at first the odds of that happening were astronomical, but then remembered the famous question that went, “What is the smallest number of randomly assembled people would you need to have a better than fifty percent chance two of them would have the same birthday?” The answer is 23. It all depends on the number of times an event occurs. So my experience with the shirts was either a purely natural phenomenon or the washer and dryer having fun, as inanimate objects are often wont to do.
An object that’s inanimate
That’s made of steel or laminate
Will often act perversely it is true
They’ll stubbornly insist
It’s you that must have missed
The start button and so the fault’s on you
But dryers now and washers
They’re kidders and they’re joshers
They play their tricks and have their little fun
On spin cycle they jiggle
And I can hear them giggle
Then summon me when all my wash is done
They’re silent as I open
The door and start my gropin’
Around inside to find my way about
They shake with silent laughter
Immediately after
I find that all my shirts are inside out
Barack Obama, by incompetence or design, has loosed the dogs of war upon a United States military he has, by sinister or ideological design, defanged in the face of danger. Only these are not dogs, they are wolves. And one night the red eyed wolves will come. They always do.
We stir uneasily in sleep
How quiet is the night
As in the dark the red eyes creep
The quarry now in sight
Obama though still sleeps serene
No worries on his mind
Not like that Bush, his hands are clean
From leading from behind
The red eyes, silent as the breeze
Proceed with noiseless leaps
To scoop Ukraine, the China seas
While Barry soundly sleeps
The red eyed wolf is never sate
His hunger satisfied
And soon upon us is our fate
The red eyes at our side
And slavering they state the terms
Surrender or you die
To furnish food for maggot worms
As in piled dead you lie