• Daniel Ethan Finneran

Ketanji Brown-Jackson, Our New Justice Supreme

The tree of government is triply branched,

In three portions split, in three segments tranched:

Nearest the root is where Congress is housed

(Of whose brainless bugs, it should be deloused!)

The branch Executive, next in esteem

Is led by a dotard whom we must deem

Diminished—If the case be made quite plain

Of a man for whom we’ve naught but disdain.

Climbing up our Constitutional tree

We grasp the slight branch of article three.

Of its worth, our Founders thought so little

They hardly gave it a jot or tittle!

But lo! Mark well how the times have been changed

The Articles shuffled and re-arranged,

So that, in a flash, the third is the first

The order upended, turned, and reversed.

Now, we look at with submission and awe

Not those who make, but interpret the law:

Nine lawyers in gowns of solemn black robed

On whom, regrettably, we have bestowed

Lifetime appointments. What a strange decree

Made by a putative democracy!

Here’s a high caste who fears no removal—

Deaf to the people’s loud disapproval.

Upon this third branch alights a new face—

One selected for her sex and her race;

For the womb she wields, the tint of her skin

Yes!—These are the conditions of Joe Biden!

“Find me a woman!”, said he to his staff

(In a lucid moment, before a gaffe…)

“One whose chrom’somes, when counted, number two,

One whose pigment bears an ebony hue;

One whose legal theory matters much less

Than the female parts that hide ‘neath her dress;

One well equipped with vagina and breasts—

Don’t bother with grades on her law school tests!

They’re no good measure for true competence,

For knowing a jurist’s jurisprudence.

No—Such Matters are grossly archaic,

Just assure me she lacks balls and a d***.

Assure me she’s black, with no hint of white

For, as you know, that pale race is a blight!

You hear me, you dog-faced pony soldier?—

Time is wasting, and I’m getting older.

Now go! Find this gal, and keep your search short,

Bring me a black woman for the high court!”

So said the man who’s whiter than paper,

Feebler than tissue, lighter than vapor;

Clad in his colorless Scotch-Irish skin,

This dismantler of “Whiteness”—Joe Biden.

His staff then nodded, in happy assent

Pleased that their boss would keep his covenant;

For did he not promise, some years ago,

That on a black woman, he would bestow

The appointment? Now, the timing was ripe

For him to make good on his campaign’s hype!

All that was needed was an open spot

With which he could fill his pick of the lot.

At last arrived the opportunity

(Perhaps to save his dead presidency).

Concluding his service, set to retire

Was the forgettable Justice Breyer.

For his replacement, a search had begun

That led to Miss Ketanji Brown-Jackson:

A woman adorned by every merit

A “dazzling” candidate fit to inherit

Steve’s chair. But first, she must appear before

Senators amassed on the chamber floor.

Of questions posed to her, there was no lack—

Some modest in tone, some pitched to attack;

Some were awash in rank sycophancy

While others quizzed her biologically.

By New Jersey’s finest, Cory Booker

(A second-rate dramatist and looker)

Brown was eulogized, right there on the spot,

As if by a wine-drunk lachrymose sot.

For sobriety, though, and shedding of light,

Real, honest inquiry, and deeper insight,

It’s not to fawning Democrats we turn,

But the probing mind of Marsha Blackburn.

She spent her brief hour of inquisition

Asking the judge for a definition,

Not of laws civil, crim’nal, nor common,

But of that bewildering thing called “woman”.

“What is a woman?”, the senator asked,

Her true purpose veiled, in innocence masked;

For she knew, by asking, she’d set a trap

‘Round which, at most, Miss-Brown Jackson would tap.

But tap she would not! She declined, instead

To speak the blunt, obvious truth in her head;

To announce right there, unequivocally

There’s quite a large difference ‘tween “he” and “she”;

That the two, in kind, are rather unique

And not at all veiled in “gendered” mystique;

That a male, well-muscled, burly and strong

Has, between his thighs, an organ that’s long;

That, when aroused, stretches up to the sky

(Stirred by his giddy Chromosomal “Y”!)

And that, for the sex that’s dainty and fair,

No such erection encounters the air;

No rising phallus, full-swollen with glee—

No—she wears her passion with more subtlety.

Forsooth! It more oft goes undetected

A light unlit, a tower un-erected.

But on Ms. Brown-Jackson, all this was lost:

As She remained terse, no matter the cost.

To Blackburn’s question, her answer was brief,

Yet so long on nonsense, it beggars belief.

“What is a Woman? Ms. Brown, do you know?”

To which the judge sheepishly answered, “No”.

“Of sex, I fear, I’ve not quite got the gist.

What do I look like? A biologist?!

A master of such inscrutable arts

As where a male ends, and a female starts?

’Tis a complex field in which I’m unschooled

By which all are misled, and many fooled.

Sadly, I lack the keen erudition

To probe this dense, impregnable question.

You ask if a woman I can define:

I haven’t the power; I’ll have to decline”.

Thus saith Brown! Our new justice Supreme

Whose radical bent, straight charms can’t redeem.

So as to avoid my speaking amiss

I’ll end my importunate poem with this:

By failing to know her biology

Brown’s divulged her gross ideology.

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