SNERD LEE LIMBAUGH POETRY RUSH

Not Arabs or Christians
in forgiveness,
the Sufi masters ask
can the Persians
go as far as China
to Tehranamen Square
where birds of an Imam
fornicate without human members
pecking the neck of freedom
laying eggs

Virgins mock these
eunuchs of passionate morality
an afterbirth without soul
tyrannical protrusions spewing
the sperm of devils
unworthy of freedom’s child

Everyone agrees:
Ali Khamenei is
suitable for clerical work
a cobbler who carefully
engraves scripture
on shoes and tombstones
walks in muddy sins,
footprints without moccasins
mocking Ahmadinejad
his wooden puppet

Poet Laureate Of The World

The ugly world has leaders
trained at Harvard, Yale, and Oxford
dictators and democrats
native born and foreign

Chaos thanks all laureates
as does Bacchus,
the Devil, and Poetesses in waiting

Let the poem have horns
sour lemonade
dilemmas, Sturm und Drang

The poetess asks me to
rhyme with orgasm
thrust a rhythm
ejaculate a verse for
Motherhood, honor, and
a professorship at Oxford, but

I am poet laureate
by default because
the fault is with the Stars
and with Brutus Cabals
in a brutal world
made by elites who
are rich by gold
poor by morals
educated by parties

Never Fly Banana Bread On A Private Plane
My young elegant lady invited me to dinner, she said, for the last time, and I thought, Ut Oh. No, she said, it’s not you; it’s just that my Father says that all his best CEO’s are cancelling charter flights, because they don’t want to be seen on a private jet, and even he had protesters taking pictures, asking if he was a banker. She said he also wants her to keep a low profile for her own safety, and not go to expensive restaurants anymore. Well, fine, I thought, and I said, come to my place, and I’ll make dinner for us. That’s when she said, by the way, Daddy asked me to tell you that you’re fired. But anyway, they have gold, and they liquidated their venture capital firm before the bubble burst. She said the wedding is off, but the burger joint in the alley still posts my poems in the Bohemian limbo. Gee, I could have been someone: I could’ve been a contender or a protester… Alas, if birds could fly…
And then there’s the married man I heard of…

SHOPPING FOR BANANAS

Laid off and walking,
watching the birds.
Supposed to be shopping.

Usually I bring my wife
a hard banana, and
she ripens it for me, but
not today.

A tilt I have into the wind
a lean on the buffeting force
that holds the gull suspended,
its eyes asking why
I don’t fly.

Without a sail, I’d
rather walk than
have feathers

But I could use a wing up when
blown backward by class envy.

I built small planes
for a hated tycoon who
flew before the Congress.

Now I am laid off
for conspicuous buzz.
I’ve bought a few books
for my new look, but
I’m too busy
to shop
for a banana.

I’ve been studying genetics, ‘though my
school abilities were pathetic, but I’m

willing to try my hand
for my family’s survival. I’m
joining the bandwagon, hopping
on the stimulus train hoping
there’s money where I’m going.

Good news! I’ve got
a job cleaning the cages
of a researcher’s mice,

nice to research the genetics of
the Pelosi Swamp Mouse.

Hurray. Save the mouse!
At least they can’t fly, and
we’ve a government grant.

Interesting work:
I label each mouse
by painting its ear
forbidden to call it
an earmark.

At the bottom of the treadmill,
they won’t
tell me much. I’m
running in circles
without a raise or a buzz.
They’ve made

a mutation mouse, Mickey 22XFS
a secret endangered species
to be released with pay.

My wife’s got
a secret recipe for
my banana bread,
says get a promotion
or we’re dead.

I’ve overheard.

I’ve decided on blackmail, but
we’ll have to move somewhere
near a Banana Republic.

I could tell the public they’ll be
releasing Mickey 22XFS
an endangered species actor,
onto a farm as a blocking factor.

My wife says ask for money,
tell the story of what they’ll say:

Too little water in California.
Don’t let the farmer kill the poor mouse.
Stop the farming, save the water.

Save poor Mickey
Experimental Farm Stopper Species
’cause he’s got a grant, and he’ll be
released with pay.

I’ve brought my wife a hard banana.
She’s pleased to be in paradise with me, ’cause
as they say, “man does not live by banana bread alone.”
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

~~ Banana Bread ~~
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup soft butter
2 eggs

1-1/3 cups mashed ripe bananas
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 tsp. rum
1 tsp. milk

2 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. nutmeg

1. Turn on an oven and set to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9×5x3 inch loaf pan.
2. While dancing the merengue, hold a large bowl. In the bowl, mash the butter into the sugar and stir and stroke until it’s smooth and fluffy like a meringue cloud. Keeping to the beat, beat in the eggs, but don’t forget to crack them open first and don’t include the shells.
3. Rest a moment for the hard part. You may have to stop dancing.
4. In a bowl to your left, stir together the mashed bananas, vanilla, rum, and milk
5. In a bowl to your right, mix flour, salt, nutmeg, and baking soda.
6. Begin dancing again.
7. On the down beat, blend some flour mixture from the right bowl into the large bowl.
8. On the up beat, blend in some of the banana mixture from the left bowl.
9. Continue alternating until you sweat.
10. Do a spin and turn the mixture into the loaf pan.
11. Bake in oven for 1-1/4 hours. Shake your hands to prevent cramps.
12. Using a pot holder or oven gloves, dance the pan out of the oven.
12. Cool for 15 minutes in pan.
13. Dump it out.
14. Cool off.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

UNSEEMLY TO CRASH THE WORLD ECONOMY (Cantor In The Mist, Version 3)

The gracious Lady from UK,
Lady Erica, is astounded,
wonders if the Americans are
mortgaging themselves into socialism,
borrowing the rotten boroughs of olde
flooding the land of the free with
swamp swap toxic securities,
some sort of Donnybrook
(Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve it)

Cousin Lady Erica* cries across the ocean blues
to cousin Madison and his Specters†: you’ve

forgotten your revolution,
lifted an old tea ship adrift
the socialist moor of recent yore,
a fog and marsh imported.

I see a U.S. congress of heath
peaty, bogged down in
quasi-stimulus. Look here
you ruffians, you
petty porkers afoul,
your sheep’s in the swamp,
the cow is in your heath

Your liberty choir has lost its voice.
Hush petty Pelosi, let Eric Cantor sing.
The sheep are simply cowering,
the corn’s not in the cow

Hush little Pelosi and David Obey,
a thirteen dollar tax cut a week
won’t feed the middle class, not
any more than pap will do it

Much ado about
the Shrub League players.

*Erica: Genus for Shrubs, rigid and branched, the heaths. Or person’s name.
†A ghost or a last name: Senator Arlen Specter, one of three Republican senators voting with the Democrats.
Representative Eric Cantor of Virginia, the Republican whip.
(House minority leader, Representative John A. Boehner of Ohio).
Speaker Nancy Pelosi of California.
Representative David R. Obey of Wisconsin, chairman of the Appropriations Committee.
   ————————————————————–
RUSH LIMBAUGH IN CAPISTRANO’S RESTAURANT
Partisans of the Congress,
the people have no bread.
“Let them eat infrastructure.”

Businessmen don’t eat in
my Capistrano’s anymore. My
restaurant might close,
my waiters are laid off. The
swallows have come back, but
the fat cats have not.

Partisans of the Congress,
business has no capital gains.
“We’ll aim their taxes high –
a trillion or so.”

My chef is willing
to build a
trillion dollar road, but
he wonders if
his carving knives
can dig a dry hole

Partisans of Congress,
the people have no jobs
except for Limbaugh, the
last man standing.
“Don’t listen to him
a partisan.”

But Rush has come to Capistrano’s
laid a plan on my table. He’s got
a hope and a dream for change:
Let 540 billion bridges blossom,
460 tax cuts for Gotham –
his movie is hiring actors.
I’m taking lessons.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh
***************************
A Ghost Who Loves War

Noble bystanders observed
her tortured to death
from a diplomatic distance
where culture is relative
because to pacifists
war is bad, but
war is good
when she was
my daughter raped

Be serious and love war
when we win

I died on Normandy beach, I thought
to save you all from Tyranny

Yet you waited to be serious
to be robust
to finally defeat the Soviet Union

My agony did not rest
when I visited prisoners in the Gulag;
I tried to comfort them, but
some did not listen to ghosts
or even believe

You waited to be serious
as I visited prisoners
in Saddam’s prisons –
need I tell you they were tortured
in sacred sovereignty
pain not our business
because you’re anti-war
against intervention, and
she was my daughter raped
not yours

You waited too long
like Chamberlain
to vomit

I love war
when it’s done soon

Next time don’t wait.
Evil doesn’t wait to teach hate,
to corrupt
to imprison my daughter

I will love the last war the best.
War is good.
Do it soon
do it well
win
so her screams
haunt me less
though I am
more ghost than you
but I fear going to the light–
I could not bear it if
she is not in heaven
or I will not be worthy to visit
— S. L. Limbaugh
(Douglas Gilbert)

Ode From A Marine’s Father
So Brave, my son
defends freedom of speech,
diversity, but please
kids of Hollywood
be safe
don’t crash into walls
drunken and
drunk on fame
honored for minor repentance
brave to not
spend millions
on drugs
on public relations
on improvisation lessons

Your crash pad
is more luxurious
than my son’s digs
surrounded by
improvised explosive devices

Make my son’s war movie
if your talent will let you
play a brave wife
brave daughter
with angst

Dust is no small thing
from a bomb
from a Trade Center,
a dictator no footnote to history
for his victims
in the big war
in Cambodia,
Bosnia, Kosovo
Ruanda
Darfur
the more to come
from indifference
delay,
crashing into walls
because Saddam
was an inconvenient foot
his trample a necessity of
balance of power politics
they said.