The Ballad of The Bush Leagues

Part 5, Back At The Ranch

After so many months of reaction
There's a curious lull in the air
Plenty of things need attention
But the focus just isn't there.

Industry's ailing, jobs are scarce,
The market has collapsed;
CEO's are under indictment
For creative accounting mishaps.

Some say Dubya's part of the problem,
They point to his corporate past
When he spunoff divisions for profit,
Sold shares just before they collapsed.

To deflect such concern he turns rather stern
While he chides New Millenium Barons,
"Their money was easy their time will be hard
Their numbers were fudge when they should have been lard (heh heh)."

It all must be very distracting,
The economy all out of whack,
An election looms on the horizon,
His niece won't stop smoking the crack.

All the while we're at war with the terror
And baseball might make its last error.
Arabs and Jews are breaking hell loose
As Israel puts Palestine in a noose.

But George remains positive, sounds quite cocksure,
He won't take a rest till the homeland's secure--
Though he's moving his office to Texas
In search of a national cure.

"I'm moving my office to Crawford
For a summer retreat.
I like to pull weeds in one hundred degrees,
It's still not as hot as the air in D.C."

Junior's an Ivy League legacy
With his heart in the land of the large.
Up there in D.C. can be tough to manage
Down at the ranch they don't question his charge.

Tucked away at his pastoral sauna
He gathers a new head of steam;
At occasional fundraising outings
He unveils his recycled themes:

"Get out the vote for this good man
Who won't play politics with my judges,
Who follows his nose without help from the polls,
Who will get right in line when I say, Let's Roll
into Iraq and depose Sadaam who tried to
kill my dad and gassed his own people!"

He gungs up his ho, gets it ready to blow up
Iraq and achieve liberation.
But the U.N. says, "Whoa! You'll have to go slow,"
Guess his mission got lost in translation.

Britain's in line but the rest do they whine!
So Junior insults them and says there's no time
For putzing around with inspections to find
The weapons we gave them to fight for our side.

"You've just got to understand,
It's a different kind of war.
No battalions or tanks or flotilla of ship
To measure success like before.

"We're making progress, rounding them up
Though you might not see on TV.
It might take time but we'll bring them to justice
Wherever they might flee."

He's right, you know, the television
Does little to show our success.
In fact, the images shown on the telly
Reveal increasing duress:

In Bali a nightclub explodes into flames and
Takes out Australian tourists;
At home in The Beltway a sniper runs rampant,
Now everyone's scared to pump gas.

Rebels from Chechnya hold hundreds hostage
Inside of a Moscow theater.
Bombs strapped to their chests, they protest not the West but
The Russians who would be their leaders.

Nevertheless, like Junior says,
"It's a different kind of war."
The kind, I guess, where vict'ry makes
Things worse than they were before.

"Eleven long years he's lied and defied,
He refuses to do what we say!
If we don't take some action now
We all will rue the day.

"He's got weapons and germs and maybe some nukes!
We've tried to be reasonable with this kook...
He's linked to Al Qaeda--of course we've got proof!
It's quite clear he's a threat to your freedom."

Not so clear, say leaders who
Reject this tunneled vision.
Myopic, nay, "Moronic," in the
Words of a spokesman for Chretien.

Still, at the end, they see the light and
Grant the U.S. permission
To launch attack upon Iraq
Whenever we say we don't like their act.