Sherlock Holmes, standing at the window of 221B, looks down at the intense activity along Baker Street, trying to identify the factor that connects all the many Obama catastrophes.

“Patience, dear Watson,” Holmes says, “now and then
the world is a quite complex place,
where only the very least clever of men
can see what is plain on its face.”
“I say Homes, old fellow,” says Watson at once,
“you seem to imply with your words
that only the densest of men, say a dunce,
comprise the once great Barack herds.”
“Exactly, dear fellow, those chaps at the Times,
who write the most exquisite bosh,
in praise of that fellow and write of his crimes
in grand tones of pish and of posh.
I speak of Obama, a man of small size,
a man without breadth, depth nor mass.
That he fails so badly can be no surprise,
except to the journalist class.”
“But they see no failure,” said Watson in scorn,
“they see not the complex nor faults.
They have no more sense than with which they were born;
they dance while the man plays a waltz.”
Holmes picks up a copy of Watson’s new book
Where Holmes sees the problem first glance
And sees that the Yanks have but only to look
Back home if they’d give it a chance
Holmes moves from the window and fills up his pipe,
says, “Watson, it’s here in this tome.
Americans know that the time is now ripe
to return to the Crown and come home,
to dwell in the land of Disraeli and Pitt
of Churchill and Marlowe and me.
There’s steps on the stair, my dear fellow, please sit,
Mrs. Hudson with afternoon tea.”