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?