We are living in final times, witnesses to  the final paroxysms of the radical culture of the 60s and the 70s, a culture of drug induced dementia and the willful destruction of the common values we once held dear, all foisted on an unsuspecting populace by Che Guevara loving twenty-something radicals determined to tear everything down. Everything takes seventy years to work its way through the intestines of a society, because it lasts so long as its founders are alive, and happily, the radical leftist twenty-somethings of the 50s are leaving us. What we do next is the question. Do we continue to keep alive that destructive culture with the election of Hillary Clinton or do we say goodbye to all that and elect a new vision for America in the person of Donald Trump. The latter will not be easy, for the 50s radicals and their successors have burrowed deep and are not about to give up power without a fierce and bloody fight.

For many years the country has
Been ruled by 50s geezers
And so corrupt could only be
Picked up with sterile tweezers
Originals are leaving us
In ever greater numbers
Succumbing peaceful in their sleep
To lie in gentle slumbers
As such as Hillary press on
Determined to destroy us
By sending all the jobs abroad
With none left to employ us
By making sure that all is rigged
To come out in their favor
With laws just for the little folk
And Left the only flavor
But revolution’s in the air
Be gone these Lefty strumpets
We’re shoving off the 50s Left
With blaring, blazing trumpets

Bethlehem Royal Hospital for the Insane, in London, Bed’lam in cockneyspeak, would never have had the reputation it has earned if they had had Josh Earnest, the press spokesman for the Obama White House, to explain what was going on inside.

Josh Earnest might be crazy too
It’s just so hard to tell
He knows the press is lazy too
And what he has to sell
Is taken at face value by
Each lefty ink stained wretch
Who never stop to ask Josh why
The sell is such a stretch
Inside they’re banging on the doors
And screaming at the night
While rolling frothing on the floors
And running round in fright
But all is calm outside and so
We know that all is well
Josh wouldn’t lie, that much we know
And while the country fell
Behind the White House counting rooms
Where votes are stashed in piles
The patients cower as their dooms
Are locked inside the files
Where staff has placed them all on hold
Until election day
When out they come, the dead and cold
The daft and all who play
At being sane and competent
While screaming in their sleep
As demons screech, Repent! Repent!
As Josh earns well his keep

The Left comes bearing gifts of poverty, disease and death, and the people, refusing to heed the warnings, have wheeled the wooden horse inside the gates. Adam and Eve rejected the Garden of Eden, and the very real paradise of modern Western civilization has been rejected by the people of the West in favor of the Leftist gifts of poverty, disease and early death, only to find, belatedly, that the gift horse was filled with snakes.

The Left it seems just loves to take
The road that leads nowhere
But to the crumbled worn out bridge
That simply will not bear
The burdens of the Leftist state
Piled on the working class
While cronies of the ruling Left
All seem to get a pass
The Left loves people who are poor
And easier to please
They herd them into ghetto camps
A Leftist run disease
The system works well for the Left
For poverty and crime
Results in votes for Lefty pols
Cashed at election time
The herded votes of third world folk
Are bought with stolen cash
From working folk who pay the tax
That fattens Leftist’s stash
The Eden that we thought we had
In which we all had stakes
Was stolen by the Left and now
Has died from bites by snakes

Researchers have developed an anti-aging drug called Rapamicin that in tests has been seen to extend the lives of mice. All well and good for the mice, but wouldn’t outlawing mouse traps be cheaper and just as effective? I spoke to a mouse recently about Rapamicin and he said,

I like the whole idea of extending all our lives
Though I suppose they’ll give it next to rats
I’m cool with that but there’s one thought that tends to give me hives
And that is that they’ll give it too to cats
I’m not afraid of cats but I confess a mild dislike
I’d hate to see them live an extra day
I’ve felt this way about those buggers since I was a tyke
We mice much all prefer the cat’s away
That said I’ve had my shot of Rapamicin and I’m good
I plan on living long and having fun
I’ll keep my distance from the cat and meanwhile knock on wood
I think I’d live much longer with a gun

One may, on command, leave his corporeal body and take wing, for howsoever a length of time he may desire, and return at the instant of his leaving, for time is elastic and life is malleable. A summer day, a young man, a high rise on the beach. The calm Atlantic Ocean stretches effortlessly to the curving edge of the Earth and the beginning of the sky. In the distance a rhythmic series of sunlight flashes betrays something on the water. Binoculars, and the flashing sunlight becomes a pod of dolphins broaching the surface, traveling south at speed, the sun bouncing off the droplets of water like tiny diamonds in the rain. As I watch, I wonder where they are going and why they are going there, what they are thinking and what they are saying. I watch them until I can see them no longer, and I close my eyes and wish with all my heart I was with them.

The sea is the entirety of my world
Timeless, without limit, undefined
Salt rivers travel constant in their course
And such as I and others of my kind
Like caravans of old we make our way
To where the boundless rivers deep and wide
Flow swiftly just beneath the surface sea
And carry us with Neptune as our guide
We pass the seacoasts of the world at large
And wonder at the lives of frantic pace
The crowded cities pressing on the verge
And thankful we are free of time and place
We sing because we love the life we live
The waves laugh with us in our joyous dance
Our journey never ends for time is still
Upon the restless sea of sweet romance

Barack Obama, channeling his inner Elizabeth Barrett Browning, riffs on her love poem to her husband, and composes a paean to the love of his life, himself.

How do I love me, let me count the ways
I have set the moral standard
For  these many, many days
I have torn apart the races
Into warring factions now
To the point where Black Lives Matter
Will no longer scrape and bow
To the white man’s whims and fancies
As I’ve boldly strode the stage
Of the world that I have mastered
I’m the marvel of the age
I have stuck it to Israelis
And the Philippines I’ve swept
Into the maws of China
And then afterward I wept
I have given nukes to Mullahs
Who have sworn to kill us all
And the Turks have now left NATO
As we watch the Mid-East fall
Into catastrophic killings
And the millions who must flee
Into Europe and the US
Where the killers are now free
To slay innocents and children
In the holy name of God
And my people are behind me
For they do not think it odd
I have won our wars by losing
To the loser goes the spoils
And I’ve seen to it that Ukraine
Rests serene in Russia’s coils
I’ve killed tyrants like Khaddafi
An unguarded consulate
Where I left young men on rooftops
And let God decide their fate
Yes my life has been amazing
Over all did I preside
As I’ve led the West I hated
To their death by suicide

In Monday’s debate between Trump and Hillary, Lester Holt, of the Democratic Party press, resurrected the question of Barack Obama’s birthplace, as if it had the slightest relevance to the 2016 presidential race. But that is all they have, and so they use it in desperation, believing that the American people care about what Donald Trump, a private citizen in 2008 or 2011, thought about it, since probably about a hundred million Americans in 2008 believed Obama was not a citizen of the United States. And why would not Donald Trump or any other American in 2008 question the history of a man the country knew nothing about? Consider – we knew, from Obama’s own words, that his father was a Kenyan communist and his mother gave him away to his grandparents who sent him to be mentored by a radical American communist named Frank Marshall Davis, whom Obama described as his real father. We knew only that Obama came to Chicago where he was an Alinsky communist community organizer, spent twenty years in the pews of a rabid anti-American preacher named Jeremiah Wright, and became a fast friend of American terrorists, Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, founders of the terrorist organization The Weather Underground, responsible for the deaths of two policemen and the bombings of a number of government buildings. His entry form to elementary school in Indonesia listed him as Barry Soetero, Muslim, He reportedly attended Punahoe, and elite school, but none of his supposed schoolmates, when interviewed in 2009 0r 2010, remembered him. He reportedly attended both Harvard and Columbia, but no school grades are available, and as far as I know no classmate from either school has ever come forward. The man was and is a mystery, an unknown who parachuted in and with the help of the left-wing media and unnamed sponsors became the president of the United States. And now the Democrats, fearing Trump’s attempts to dislodge a percentage of the monolithic Democrat black vote, and determined to keep the black vote in their pockets, are screaming that Donald Trump was once a Birther, notwithstanding that it was the Hillary Clinton campaign in 2008 that first raised the question. But there are more questions to be answered than where he was born, and perhaps when Donald Trump is president a reporter or two may feel it safe to look into the possibly Manchurian background of Barry Soetero/Barack Hussein Obama.

Just how did he gain
That white slave-built house
And who was it that
Had put him in there
And who really was
His mother’s real spouse
But where was he born
I really don’t care
But is he malign
Or stupid and slow
Is this now the time
No crisis to waste
Yes, these are the things
That I want to know
Is Manchuria
The question erased

We all knew that Lester Holt would never ask Hillary about Benghazi, bout obstruction of justice in destroying emails after a subpoena had been issued demanding they be produced, about classified documents left out in the open for all to see, about the Clinton Foundation or about the Pay to Play selling of the United States State Department. We knew Lester Holt would ask Donald Trump about his tax returns and about his supposed birther sentiments and why he says such mean things about women, as if any of them had any relevance to the issue of which of the two is best qualified to be president. We knew it, Trump’s staff knew it, and Trump knew it. His staff prepared a quiver full of sharpened arrows to fire at her, and he was prepped and re-prepped in preparation for the questions, warned repeatedly not to get tangled up in the weeds designed to hurt him, but the minute the questions arose he forgot all the planning and grabbed the tar baby, spending most of his time in the debate defending things that need not have been defended. And so, having grabbed the tar baby he never mentioned Benghazi or the Clinton Foundation or any of the many criminal activities that would have nailed her to the floor. And at the end of the wasted ninety minutes Trump’s quiver was still full of arrows, with an untouched and untroubled Hillary smiling and waving. I found myself wishing they had sent up Newt Gingrich as pinch-hitter. Had they done so the only quivering would have been done by the body on the floor.

He could have nailed her to the floor
He could have ended it for sure
But no, the baby made of tar
Enveloped him too long by far
The arrows sharpened by his staff
No stone unturned on his behalf
The bow of yew so sweetly hewn
He picked it up and laid it doon
The tide not taken at the flood
Is often paid for with the blood
Of those who fight for honor’s sake
And broken arrows sorrows wake

The descendants of Negro slaves freed by the deaths of three hundred and twenty thousand young white men fighting under the banner of the United States to destroy the ugly institution of Southern slavery, descendants who are now rich beyond avarice because they are skilled at playing a game, have taken to spitting on the flag that freed their ancestors from slavery, thereby revealing the nature of the Negro slave.

The Arab slaver’s with us still
He gathers Blacks against their will
And takes them to the market square
To stand in chains for buyers there
For centuries this was the case
The fortune of the Negro race
The Middle Passage packed like spoons
Into the ships from barracoons
To work the South’s plantation fields
For cotton, sorghum, sugar yields
Until three hundred thousand men
Died to destroy the slave filled pen
They fought under the starry flag
And died from likes of Braxton Bragg
And now upon that flag you spit
You will not stand, and so you sit
Your actions show that you behave
Like what you are, a born-to slave

My paranoia is well under control most of the time, but even so it seems it’s getting worse. At the University of California at Berkeley, quite possibly the most radical Leftist Progressive school in the United States, Muslim and other minority students viciously harass and attack Jewish students without consequence from the administration. The NFL is losing TV viewers because some players have fallen for the SJW and Black Lives Matter propaganda that white cops are out to kill young black men and so to show solidarity some NFL millionaires decided to disrespect the flag, to the anger of white people who decided not to watch the games, and NFL commissioner Roger Goodell praises the guys who piss on the flag, while knowing that if it continues and expands he risks the NFL becoming a regional game again, with no national television ratings and therefore no money to pay the millionaires protesting the terrible lot of the black man. But maybe it’s just me.

I look out and what do I find
Safe spaces are all underlined
Diverse kids to use
But not for the Jews
But maybe it’s all in my mind
A flag is why people can bind
Together to be of one kind
But Roger Goodell
Says he thinks it is swell
That piss on Old Glory’s designed
To focus the light on the grind
On those that the law left behind
Where white cops will kill
Young black men at will
But maybe it’s all in my mind