• Daniel Ethan Finneran

Two Saviors In Two Weeks: First Obama, and Now Christ Returns - A Political Poem

A contribution from Eugene Erigena, by whose shameless inelegance, I’m frankly appalled.

So soon! The month of April has arrived;

How swift the seasonal pace is contrived

To pass—yielding cruel winter to soft spring,

For whose balmy advent, the angels sing

An ethereal song of mirthful joy,

Marking the return of the “Golden Boy”.

From heaven’s high vault does this great man descend

With terrestrial soil marking the end

Of his journey: What began in the stars

Ends on a rock between Venus and Mars.

Massed at his feet upon his arrival

Are those who’ve long prayed for his revival;

When, in the cosmos, balance would renew

And lustrous sights would bedazzle their view;

When, in affection, the lion and lamb

Would frolic together and share a dram

Of sweet honey—the preferred drink of friends!

(O’er which even beasts can make their amends).

Henceforth, they’d relish perpetual peace,

A calm dominion of joy without cease;

A land of sweet pleasure, boundless and pure:

Could a Utopian ask for much more?

And who is this god for whom they all wait?—

To whom they genuflect and supplicate?

For the sight of whose smile, o’er coals they’d crawl

To whose winning charm, they’re wholly enthralled?

Can you guess? No?—I’ll give you a few hints:

In the Oval Office, he served two stints.

To Michelle wed, by Ann Dunham mothered

(By whom he was raised, though much less colored;

Between black and white, he more darkly stood—

Two rich hemispheres combined in his blood).

The pride of Hawaii, her hybrid son

Of Harvard’s Law School, an esteemed alum.

No guesses still? You’ll not dare take a crack?

The king from on high is none but Barack.

I speak of Obama—not Christ, you fool!

(Who wielded a hammer and rode a mule).

Barack wields more power, or so it would seem

And rides on a name that just might redeem

His successor. Of Joe Biden, ‘Tis said,

His future is bleak, his agenda, dead.

Unhelped is he by the limp hand of luck

Without which he’s drowned, like a frail lame duck.

Alas! Underwater Biden remains

With plummeting polls all circling the drains.

What better time, then, than now to recall

Barack—by whom Joe’s collapse might be stalled?

Into the White House he recently stepped

Up to whose dais, he naturally leapt.

(Is there a man better fit for the stage?—

Whose youthfulness ill contrasts with Joe’s age;

Whose handsome presence and eloquent voice

Make him, not Biden, the preferable choice?)

There to promote his namesake healthcare act,

He stole the whole show with effortless tact;

Referring to Joe as his underling,

As dross measured against a pound sterling,

Obama insulted the man. But, Phew!

If only Biden were conscious and knew

That he’s become little more than a joke,

A stale simpleton at whom all can poke;

Of whom all can make light, mockery, and fun

Whose mind is mush, and whose race is now run.

After the speech, Biden aimlessly walked,

Lost ‘midst a group that excitedly talked

Of big issues—And how could they be small?

Kamala Harris was there, after all!

The vast breadth of her genius, none can gauge

Like a fat man’s hunger none can assuage…

Oh stop! Off I go again to digress

On the profound talent of Miss Harris.

As for Joe, like a lost boy he ambled

And worse! Like an old drunkard he rambled

About god knows what! The letter-less truant

(Sense is a language in which he’s un-fluent!)

Obama’s attention he sought in vain

Tapping his shoulder again and again;

Like a querulous child, needing a nap

He continued to whine and tap, tap, tap.

But Barack’s shoulder was ever so cold

To the free world’s leader, who’s e’er so old.

Never has a colleague been so aloof,

Nor a president such a graceless goof.

In short: the entire scene was a pity

(A sad note on which to end my ditty).

We’ve long passed the point of embarrassment,

The days of campaigning from his basement;

The time when he was sniffing young girls’ hair

(Regardless of whether her mom was there);

The time when Hunter, his dissolute son

Tossed in a schoolyard an illegal gun

And then used his name with regimes to trade

By which the “Big Guy’s” been handsomely paid;

When he introduced to poor Tara Reade

Promiscuous fingers hungry to feed

On southern meals. Oy! Is this not too much?—

For the gentle caress of a poet’s touch?

I fear that my pen’s out-written itself

And my rhymes should return back to their shelf.

But before they do, allow me to say:

Enjoy your Easter, this coming Sunday!

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