"Gore's Saga" - Views: 438 · Hits: 438 - Type: Public

In a thread over on Shakespeare’s Sister in 2006, discussing just how hard the Democrats should fight the Republicans, Kirby wrote:

“In 2000, I wanted to see a naked and bloody Al Gore standing on the steps of the White House with Bush’s head on a pike. So no, nothing Dems do to fight back now would bother me.”

That was such a vivid image that it called up heroic verses in my head.

              GORE’S SAGA

Foul was the faring to ford the Potomac;
Wretches had ruined the river’s pure flow.
Deep was the darkness as desperate heroes
Sought through the city to slay their fell foe.

Drastic the deeds that had drawn them all thither,
Tragic the tale of that terrible time:
Fate had enfeebled the freedom of many,
Parting the people from power by crime.

Once had the wonderful way of the nation
Settled succession by seeking fair test;
Now had the numbers been not truly noted,
Liars had laughed as they libelled the best.

Gore had the greater of groups voting for him,
Only if honesty honored the counts.
Fewer would follow a felon hight Dubya —
His were the henchmen that hid the amounts.

Dark was the day that this Dubya took power,
Woeful the world under wicked men’s rule:
Terror attacking could topple a tower,
Dubya would do naught but dabble at school.

Past all his prating of pet goats to children,
Courage he could not have claimed and been true.
Fearfully fled he from first sign of danger,
Crept into caverns well covered from view.

Scorned as a shivering, snivelling coward,
Laid he the lie that made loyal men gag:
He was a hero as hearty as any,
Wrapped in a robe of the royal war-flag.

Posing and prancing, this parody-hero
Sped to the sites that his sloth had betrayed,
Spoke of his strength and the speed of his vengeance,
Waved men to war... but then went home and played.

Further this failure would fetter his subjects:
Patriots, pled he, would pledge him their creed.
Bills he embellished to buttress his power;
Sign here, he said, do not seek first to read.

Soon, at his summons, like serfs were his people,
Terror and torture the tools of his trade;
Merely his marking out men made them vanish,
Pass into prisons he privily made.

Far from the field of this fetid corruption,
Loving the land and yet loathing its lord,
Hearing the horrors that had thus befallen,
Gore listens grimly, while grinding his sword.

Long, but no longer, I’ve left off my vengeance!
Strong, but no stronger, that snaveling’s role!
Weak, but no weaker henceforth, will my party
Pry back the power that prattler stole!

Blows he a blast on his bellicose war-horn,
Trump-call whose tremors would trammel a foe;
Friends, though, it finds, and they fleetly come forward,
Swords, shields, and spears by their sides as they go.

Swift was their sight of the city benighted,
Quiet and quick was their crossing the ford.
Wrathful and ruthless, they wreaked their hard justice,
Few folk could flee from the fierce spear and sword.

Liars there lay with their lips for once truthful,
Cowards and caitiffs lay calmly at last;
Traitorous torturers’ tools turned against them,
Paying back pain they had plied in the past.

Screams arose, scaring the scabrous still-living,
Panicing pundits and pollsters who’d slept;
Hacks and louts huddled in hideous terror,
Goplin-folk gripped little green balls and wept

Where’s Rum and Wolf-o’-wits, where is Gonzales,
Architects ardent of arduous wars?
Seek ye the secrets they sought to hide ever,
Cells they concealed, tighter sealed now than jars.

What of the worst of them, wily Dick Cheney,
Karl the Accursèd, and coarse liar Rush?
Brains they had boasted, and bellies fat-laden;
Stop by the swine-pens and sniff at the mush.

What of the wicked and wastrel man Dubya?
Fear not, my folk, here’s the finish you’ll love.
Gore went and got him, and gives us a trophy:
See, there he stands, with his spear held above.

Bare now and bloodied, but bowing to no man,
Proud of his people and pure in his cause,
Bears he the burden above on his spearpoint,
Proof that no prince safely poisons our laws.

Doom that he dreaded found Dubya the Dumbwad:
Hoisted his head was on high-waving spear;
Gutters were glutted with guts of his goplins.
Glory to Gore, all our griefs disappear!

© 2006 Raven (C.M. Joserlin)