Joe D. Wilbert

Guess What Daddy’s Bringing Home For Supper

The President cheated on his nuclear missile

With a pretzel that choked him,

But we don’t dare tell his lover, Oil.

Into the depths of the abyss,

He penetrates mother Earth

With a dangerous intent of greed smirked on his face.

He thinks only in green,

Not “Earth” green or “save our lives” green,

But rather a “dead president” green,

A reflection of himself. 

The 10 percent wealthy

Is doing just fine

While we dive under couch cushions,

Desperately trying to suffocate our stomach’s roar. 

Oh, I wonder whenever Bush talks to God,

Does he stand in front of a mirror?

Does he know the difference

Between an oil rig and an oval office?