Calvin Trillin, the author of Random House’s Deciding the Next Decider: The 2008 Presidential Election in Rhyme, is The Nation‘s “deadline poet.” He has been acclaimed in fields of writing that are remarkably diverse. As someone who has published solidly reported pieces in The New Yorker for forty years, he has been called “perhaps the finest reporter in America.” His wry commentary on the American scene and his books chronicling his adventures as a “happy eater” have earned him renown as “a classic American humorist.” His About Alice—a 2007 New York Times best seller that was hailed as “a miniature masterpiece”—followed two other best-selling memoirs, Remembering Denny and Messages from My Father.
He says that what he said about the Jews
(They own and thus manipulate the news)
Is not, of course, reflective of his views.
So what part of the news did those Jews lose?
A place was found for Mr. Cheney
Where, even if the missiles rain, he
Can carry on his governing nonstop.
They then found bunkers down so far
That closed-lip Bushies even are
More secretive than they have been on top.
So if some heinous act occurred,
Our continuity's assured:
The government will run forevermore.
And since the Congress has no caves,
There'll be no Waxmans to make waves--
Which should make things much smoother than before.
The OSI's intent to disinform
Received responses that were less than warm.
The Pentagon now says it doesn't need
An office just to lie and to mislead.
There is, though, one false fact they're not eschewing:
The notion that the brass know what they're doing.
(A Houston version of the Irish folk song)
Oh, Kenny Boy, your friends are disappearing.
They don't know you, much less your kvetchy wife.
Yes, it's sad when pols that you've been shmeering
Now hope that you'll get twenty years to life.
They sang your song: They passed deregulation.
They passed your laws. They bent the regs your way.
But now they track your every obfuscation.
Old Kenny Boy, their Kenny Boy's now Mr. Lay.
Recalling what took place before,
We must implore Al Gore: No more.
(With apologies to Stephen Foster)
The Enron hearings stretch ahead,
Until the final soundbite's said.
Oh, doo-dah day.
Pols will posture night,
Pols will posture day.
They'll show the voters just how tough they are,
Browbeating some CPA.
They'll talk of all the laws they'll make,
And meanwhile they're still on the take.
Oh, doo-dah day.
Pols will posture day,
Pols will posture night.
The guy who's shmeered them for a dozen years
Now is the guy they'd indict.
The pirate ship has sunk beneath the waves.
The swabs who haven't gone to wat'ry graves
Row desperately, though all of them now know
Their water and their food are running low.
They row their wretched boats and curse their lot.
Receding in the distance is a yacht
That carries all their officers, who knew
The ship was doomed but didn't tell the crew.
The officers stand tall. They saw their duty:
Desert the ship by night and take the booty.