12 feb 03
THE RAVING by Jim Phillips
Once upon a Sunday dreary, while gazing, bleak and bleary,
Over many a shrill and shrieking rant of columnists galore,
In my heart I felt a sinking. "Have they lost their knack for thinking?!
It's enough to start me drinking!" And I must confess I swore;
I confess I spat the vilest of invective as I swore,
Spat and cursed, and stomped the floor.
For distinctly I remember, it was in the bright September
When a blast of flame and ember marked the starting of the war,
Yet this morning finds me tracking all these dodos, brains a-slacking
Still insistent that we're lacking all the proof which they ignore,
All the proof which, head in sand, they so conveniently ignore.
Quoth the peaceniks, "We need more."
And I scarce can watch the TV without the chill of heebie jeebies
At the sight of movie actors spouting off their gripe du jour.
To the Jimmy Carter stand-ins (Streisand, Baldwin, Penn, Sarandon):
If it's so dire, why not abandon this totalitarian shore
For the greener lands of France? Depart this dark repressive shore!
Quoth the peaceniks, "Nevermore!"
But there's just one valid answer to the throbbing media cancer,
And the queasy timid souls for whom there's naught worth fighting for,
And to Daschle's petty prattling, and Saddam's harsh saber-rattling:
We must now begin the battling of this deadly cheerless chore,
For should we shirk the burden of our grim and somber chore,
We shall know peace . . . nevermore.