A hopeful letter home written by a young boy named Allan Sherman to his parents in Connecticut.

Hello Muddah, Intifada
Abbas smiling, he says nada
Says it’s peaceful as can be here
Says the roses are in bloom as you can see here
Mr. Assad has a friend now
Things are on an upward trend now
Putin sitting in the middle
Of the oilfields while Obama plays the fiddle
Engineers now dot the landscape
Calculating with a handtape
Crawling over all the bare fields
Laying out dimensions for the Russian airfields
In the Ukraine Russian Spetsnaz
Putin says that he who gets has
Russian families, Russian squatters
Putin says it’s all about those mudders, fodders
Meanwhile China building islands
Turning ocean into highlands
Tells our Navy they’re on notice
Not to go there as agreed to by the Potus
Dearest Faddah, dearest Momma
I hear back home there’s great drama
Mr. Trump will make things better
Mudda, faddah kindly disregard this letter

Conservatives have a stark choice – vote for people you know will betray you or don’t vote at all and turn the country over to the raving, slathering, red-eyed wolves of the Left, who are determined to destroy the country in order to create their tooth, claw and gulag fevered vision of Utopia.

In deepest dark the red eyes gleam
Unblinking, fixed upon the prey
Who, sleeping, deep within the dream
Of law and justice and fair play
Are unaware of sharpened teeth
And bloody claws approaching near
Believing still they can bequeath
Democracy to those held dear
The wolves though differ in the view
That law and justice are for all
They know the law is for the few
Who listen to the thrilling call
Of lupus howling in the night
From snow packed woods and moonlit hill
The eyes full red and shining bright
While at their feet the dead lie still

Political parties are not only composed of people with similar ideology, but also include people who just do not like the people in the other party. Identity politics will prevail, and if Blacks remain the solid base of the Democratic Party, then Hispanics, who will be fighting Blacks for the same slice of pie, will gravitate to the opposite party, regardless of the internal ideology of that party. Demography is destiny, and by the time European whites are in the absolute minority in their own country, the fight between Blacks and Hispanics will not only be for a slice of the pie but for absolute power, for both groups are essentially undemocratic. The transition of the United States into a third world thugocracy will not be pretty. I have strongly urged my grandsons to buy guns and learn to use them, because they are going to need them.

The Dems believe illegal immigration
From Third World countries means that they will rule
Forever in what was a First World nation
Not understanding that life is a duel
For jobs and perks and slices of the small pie
That sits there for a few of Third World folk
That people’d rather fight than see their kids die
From sheer despair at bearing the Dem yoke
Hostility ‘tween blacks and browns occurring
With violence that runs the streets blood red
With bloody minded racist leaders stirring
The mob into a rage that counts the dead
The whites retreat to safer, saner places
With fences and guard towers manned with guns
As all about them rage contorted faces
Kill each other’s laughing baby sons

Vladimir Putin is strangling Barack Obama in Obama’s own ego. Putin has taken over leadership of the entire Middle East, and Obama has no quarrel with it, even though it reverses seventy years of American policy. Putin slices Ukraine, threatens the Baltic States, allies himself with Iran, a country that constantly threatens death and destruction to the United States, and smiles contemptuously at Barack’s weak, feckless objections. Vladimir Putin, in short, is flying high. He is, in the words of that old 1938 hit song, Puttin On The Ritz. If you’ve never heard it, it’s on YouTube.

Vladimir, the KGB
Wrestling bears bare chested he
Tiger kits
Putin on the Ritz

B Hussein, his smooth skinned bitch
Dreams of scratching Putin’s itch
Taking hits
Putin on the Ritz

Mother Russia or USSR
Stalin or anointed Holiness Tsar
Guest star, best star

Syria, Afghanistan
Muscles flexing he’s the man
Ukraine bits
Putin on the Ritz

Vladimir, the KGB
Wrestling bears bare chested he
It all fits
Putin on the Ritz

Hillary Clinton recently confessed she did not sweat, not ever. I spoke to a Clinton supporter the other day and she said the thing she liked most about Hillary was she didn’t sweat. Not under hot studio lights, not when being grilled mercilessly by George Stephanopoulos, not schmoozing with a lunch time diner crowd in hot summer Iowa. “The woman is remarkable,” she said. “She can open and close her pores at will.” She closed her eyes, sighed, and spoke of her love for Hillary Clinton.

I love the way control is where she’s at
Like, she don’ need no man to fix a flat
As well, you know, she beat Whitewatergate
And turned to love that awful horrid hate
She’s calm and cool and like, she has a way
Of telling truth no matter what you say
And really, what is there one cannot like
She builds a wall around her, like a dike
It’s turn now for a woman president
And Huma be First Lady resident
And peace and opportunity for all
And gender neutral rooms for nature’s call
And never being sweaty is a plus
It’s plain hard work to throw under the bus
Old friends who hung around when times were thin
While folks like me climb on when she gets in

Barack Obama has carried out his promise to fundamentally change the United States with competence and malice. Has he succeeded in placing Lady Liberty in her coffin? If he does succeed, will she be alive or dead?

She lay quiet in her coffin
The sharp smell of bronze and silk strong in the tiny space
Comfortable in her cramped surroundings
Marveling at the liquid sound of earthworms
Moving slowly past, talking quietly of earthly things
She listened, spellbound, to the cries of aroused insects
Making love to willing flowers
And the gentle rain caressing the cool, green grass
As the galaxies pinwheel through her vision
Retreating deep into the black velvet past
Time passed, whether slowly or swiftly she could not say
Season followed season, flowers and grass, rain and snow
And still she waited, content
For what she could not tell
There came at last a gentle rustling
As soft as drifting mist on hallowed ground
Bright flaring words of many hues
Flashed quickly by her
In answer to her question, was she alive or dead
The words filled all the space she felt surround her
Filling her small world with colored light
And told her that the universe cared not for her condition
For all was pure imagination
That nations rose and fell with every season
And whether she lived or died was up to her

I came upon a time machine the other day when I pulled up some old linoleum from a kitchen floor and found some newspapers from September 1938. Or was it 1983? Hard to tell. Me eyes are going blinky on me. In any event, methinks we have been there before. Consider: The world was in turmoil in 1938. The Anschluss, in which the entry of German panzers into Vienna set the table for the invasion of Poland and France, and where, curiously enough, Vienna today is the entry point for young Muslim invaders pouring into Europe in general and into Germany in particular. Consider further that these military age invaders/refugees are accompanied by almost no women. What will happen when a million young male Muslim invaders feel lonely and realize the European women are fairly attractive? Does anyone else see bloodshed in the offing? Also in 1938 the Soviet show trials were destroying the professional officer ranks of the Red Army, leading to three million prisoners of war in the first three months of the German invasion in 1941, while today Obama has more or less under the radar destroyed the professional flag officer ranks of the American military, replacing them with sycophants like the Obama appointed Army Chief of Staff who said, amid worldwide crises, that the most serious threat to the United States was climate change. Fortunately, we haven’t been invaded yet. Oh, wait. For a moment there I thought those millions of illegal Mexicans crossing our southwestern border might have intentions of attacking the Alamo.

If only time flowed backward
And we all were young again
Reliving things forgotten or misplaced
Reliving all the good times
And the fun we had back then
While elsewhere roads were filled with the displaced
But time flows backward only once
And only when it’s dreamed
The pictures that we see are all the same
For times gone past are memories
Of things not as they seemed
And still the wrong guy always gets the blame
And so it is with Putin
And his svelte Obama bitch
Fast forward several years and watch the tape
You’ll see that time is not confused
And never drops a stitch
The last scene always ends with coal black crepe

With the Prussians but a few miles away and coming hard to Wellington’s aid, and the Battle of Waterloo hanging in the balance, Napoleon threw the dice and sent Count d’Erlon’s Corps against Wellington’s flank, knowing if d’Erlon could break the English position he could turn and deal with the Prussians. Four solid columns of Count d’Erlon’s veteran Corps, 18,000 strong, struggled through the soft earth and tangled rye of the narrow valley, toward the gently sloping hill, pushed on by the steady thrum thrumming of the drummer boys, savaged every step by Wellington’s nine pounders pouring shell and solid shot into the solid rectangles of blue clad infantry. After what seemed to them an eternity the Corps reached the hill and gained the crest, the British gunners running for the reverse slope where the redcoats lay, safe from the French bombardment by Bonaparte’s beautiful daughters, the monster two ton twelve pounders of the Grande Battery. Reaching the crest, the French columns shook out into lines, intending to envelope the British and Dutch line. Victory was in sight, numbers would count, but as they shook out their lines the redcoats stood and delivered a killing volley fire from point-blank range. The French front line recoiled, and at that moment the British heavy cavalry charged, the Royal Scots Greys leading the way, every man on a great grey warhorse, followed by the Iniskillings and the Royals, driving the French before them. A great slaughter ensued, the French infantry unable to form squares, pressed hard by giant horses and armored cavalry, falling in bloody heaps to slashing swords and sabers.  As he watched from across the valley, Napoleon is reported to have said, “Those terrible Greys, they fight so fiercely.”

We came across the field of rye
The Eagles shining bright
The cynosure of every eye
A splendid martial sight
We gained the crest, elated, tired
But then without a sound
The redcoats stood and volley fired
And many fell to ground
We rallied, gained the upper hand
But then above the roar
Of guns and shouts and screamed command
Came horses and they bore
Us down the hill, a helpless mass
Like grass that bends and sways
And through our ranks the heavies pass
Led by the Royal Greys

The portrait seemed familiar, disconcertingly so. In the dim light of the darkened gallery the eyes seemed to follow him. Wherever he stood in the room the eyes looked directly at him, seeming to speak. And then, in a searing flash of recognition, he realized who the man in the portrait was. It was himself. And then he noticed the bronze plaque. It read, Barack Obama, the last president of the United States, died in the nuclear attack on the Capital in the summer of 2016. He turned, shaken, to find the sky and stars now visible through the shimmering walls, until, presently, the room was gone, and he stood outside, in a cold and bitter wind.

The tortured stones shone brightly
In the fullness of the moon
Turned molten in an instant
On that fateful afternoon
As brighter than the sun
The fearsome flashes lit the sky
And one by one the cities
Of the West began to die
While hidden in the ocean depths
The subs so quiet lay
And in response their missiles launched
And silent flew away
All through the night and through the next
The missile subs replied
And in the brightness of the night
The mighty cities died
He walked among the tortured stones
And shivered in the cold
And waited for the smiling man
To whom his soul he sold

President Obama has led the retreat and surrender of the United States, along with his Democrat colleagues and establishment Republicans who enable them. In didn’t used to be that way, and it is still possible to get back to where we were before the country was saddled with anti-American Progressive Democrats and Barack Obama. In WW1, as a US Marine battalion arrived at the front, a French officer told them to retreat, whereupon the Marine commander said, “Retreat hell, we just got here!” An army in retreat is difficult to get turned around, and so is a country in retreat. That small portion of the American public who are paying attention understands this, understands that the Republican establishment has bought into the Democrat policy of retreat and surrender, and that is why they are rejecting such as Jeb Bush and other establishment types and are going for outsiders like Donald Trump, who will be, in the absence of calamitous events, the next president of the United States.

We win all the of battles, to the Democrats’ dismay
Who hate the very thought of victory
Convinced posterity will see theirs as the sainted way
With our defeat their valedictory
The time has come to take command, no time for sitting still
Good sturdy yeomen leave their homes and kin
To take up arms to rid the land of those who wish us ill
And once again to fight and fight to win
It can be done, we have the will, if patriots arise
And fill the tumbrels to the very top
And take them to the scaffolds with black blindfolds on their eyes
And when we’ve hanged them all this stuff will stop