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Deadline Poet | The Nation

Deadline Poet

Calvin Trillin

We'd say goodbye to Clinton, Bill,
Who always was a rascal, still
Accomplished much, before he tripped
(He couldn't keep his trousers zipped)
And after, too. His gifts were great.
A farewell toast we'd contemplate,
Except for now we can't believe
That Bill is really going to leave.

This Racicot seemed like Bush's sort of guy:
Pro-life, he thought that killers ought to fry.
Though right-wing to the core in many ways,
He was, the Christian right said, soft on gays.
They told Bush that he ought to give the nod
To Ashcroft, who believes he speaks for God.
"OK," said Bush. Though not perhaps so glad, he
Bowed quickly to the wackos, like his daddy--
Yes, like the Bush to whom we bid adieu.
We now know what we have here: Lapdog II.

                  
                  I

Now Ashcroft will decide who's on the bench.
The civil rights division will retrench--
Unless it finds that civil rights entails
Some breaks at last for pure white Christian males.
The jobs and housing efforts that depend
On Justice will on Ashcroft's watch all end.
And solemn friend-of-court briefs will be filed:
"Abortion simply means to kill a child."
One comfort lasts, as dreams of justice shatter:
Ralph Nader said it really wouldn't matter.

                                    II

Gale Norton thinks there's no place you can spoil
If what you do to it produces oil.
She'd like to see no regulations left;
She thinks controls on property is theft.
Emissions? Who should monitor their flow?
To her it's clear: the firm's own CEO.
So drillers drill. Here's what Interior's got:
A protégée of James (The Crackpot) Watt.
Don't tear your hair and curse those who begat her:
Remember: Nader said it wouldn't matter.

(Another Republican sea chantey)

They all went down to stop Miami-Dade
From making counts the judges had OK'd.
Unlikely toughs, with ties and crisp white shirts,
They went to hand Al Gore his just deserts.
So, noisily, they jammed into the hall.
Then Sweeney, from the House, began to call.

Shut it down, shut it down, shut it down.
The first machine vote's truly holy.
Shut it down, shut it down, shut it down,
With a heave-ho-ho and a bottle of Stoly.

One congressman by whom they had been sent:
DeLay in name, and also in intent.
Prepared to knock a head or bust a snout
To show what our democracy's about,
They bumped some chests and maybe pulled some hair,
And Sweeney's martial call stayed in the air:

Shut it down, shut it down, shut it down.
The rule of law is holy, too.
Shut it down, shut it down, shut it down.
With a heave-ho-ho and some microbrew.

(Lyrics found on a table inside a state building
in Miami-Dade County)

I'm counting my heart out for you.
The votes I am finding are few.
We hear the mob right in the hallway heat up,
They're talking of the chads that we might eat up.
I hope this ends before we all get beat up.
I'm looking for voters for you--
Some blacks or a wandering Jew.
There aren't enough new hanging chads to suit me.
I hope the Cubans don't show up to shoot me.
There doesn't seem much I can do,
Still, I'm counting my heart out for you.

Author

Calvin Trillin
Calvin Trillin, the author of Random House's Deciding the Next Decider:...

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