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When the air about him thickens, a sweet sensation rises, quickens--
Heart a-quiver, Chris feels words Obamunist deliver legthrills he’s not able to ignore.
It’s all New Testamenty, really, churchy Super-Tuesday zealy,
He teeters on the edge of torpor, can’t remember Hill’ry any more,
Then tears of joy, sprung all unbidden, glisten on his cheeks,
And flow full-bore,
And he leaves the final vestige of his fitness in a puddle on the studio floor.
Ah, the meretricious speeches Thomas Lauren Friedman preaches
(What felicitous ability to bore!):
The Chinese are our betters (no useless democratic fetters);
We are morons; we are greed-afflicted gorgons; oh and by the way, we’re racist to the core.
And still we overpay his bloviating by a thousand score--
And foot the heating bill for his great bastion ever more!
(Rachel Abrams continued)
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