My Dearest Cowboy-in-Chief,

What has happened, your Cowboyship, to your codpiece?
It grows each time you tell another lie: War is peace.
Peace is war. But it's not your fault. Texas can make a toad
into a god whose tongue must lie forthwith in everyday American
Cowboy speak. To make it sound more truth-like: Buckeroos,
The only good A-rab is a pre-emptively dead A-rab.

 

When you catch Mad Mad Saddam in bed with your nucular
daughters, what will you do with his genitalia? His ganglia?
His bitter liver? His sons who sodomize camels. Who sodomize
Democarats. Who will let anyone who can pay for the motel room
sodomize them. Will your Rumsfield or your Ashcroft render him
castrato with their sharpened teeth, then make him yodel the Pledge?

 

I envy you your pointy boots and spurs, your rodeo clowns
who sit and read Rumi as the unbearable bull charges.
Stops. Asks the cowpokes real pretty like, If you read me
some of that there Sufi stuff, I won't hurt you none. Shalom.
Salaam. Shantih. Then the clowns whip out their glow-in-the-dark
badges, toss a feedbag over his head, and drag him off to Gitmo.

 

Oh, those Frenchies, those Ruskies, those Chinese.
Constipating the constipated UN. If only they could see
what you see when you close your eyes. Deep black boiling
blood, rolling out across the desert. Bubbling, seething, twisting,
teething. Blubbering and babbling. You got to wrestle it down.
Forthwith. Make it beg for your brand. Like a Texan do.