The president has yet to decide whether to continue the war in Afghanistan to its finish, or to bug out, or to take the third route, a slow decline into inevitable defeat. Such are the burdens of the lonely man in the Oval Office. Late at night, in the Hall of the Presidents, Obama paces fitfully, begging the portraits to understand.

 

 

I will not be rushed

Though my name be crushed

‘Neath the right wing idiot mass

For I know I’m right

Least in Allah’s sight

So on Afghan plans I’ll pass

As deciders go

I may seem quite slow

But I get there in the end

I will delegate

So that I can skate

Up the hill and round the bend

It’s a lonely job

And it does play hob

With my presidential mien

For my health care plan

Meant for every man

Is departing from the scene

There is much to do

And the days are few

And the nights are long and cold

And I must decide

If I run or hide

To do neither would be bold

So I take me hence

To the passive tense

While our soldiers fight and die

Waiting for my writ

While I think and sit

Is it me or is it I