Subject:  The Gorax © 2001
                (stolen from The Lorax by Dr. Seuss)
 
 
In the middle of D.C. where the dubya-bush grows
      and the protestors still camp in the streets by the rows
      and nobody is happy 'cept crude CEOs . . .
      is the Street of the Gifted Gorax.
 
And deep in the pundit-spoor, some people say,
      if you listen real hard you can still hear, today,
      what the Gorax had pleaded
      and the public had needed
      before all of them drove the poor Gorax away.
 
Who was the Gorax?
      And why was he there?
      And why was he driven and taken somewhere
      from the end of D.C. where the dubya-bush grows?
      Old Cheney still lives there.
      Ask him.  He knows.
 
  You won't see Dick Cheney.
      There's no use to knock.
      He's down at the White House
      where he stares at the clock
      and he curses the day
      when he told someone's Pop --
      I'm the only Republican who's fit for the job
      of watchin' yer boy so he cannot screw up.
 
But when Dick finally answers
      the cell phone he hides,
      his voice'll sound gaspy
      as he quietly confides:
      "The kid's dumb as a drum,
      as sharp as hard-tack.
      He still drinks AND he drives.
      He spends days in the sack.
 
And to make matters worse,
     even when they're at home,
     he and that Laura won't answer their phone!
     So I sit here and tend things most days all alone.
 
Now the Nation is crumbling.
       The markets have crashed.
       The folks are all rioting
       and smoking their crack.
       I can't summon the Army
       to mount an attack,
       'cause the General finally
       figured out that he's Black!
 
Paybacks should have gone smoother --
        for throwing the race,
        but those uppity voters
        forgot their low place.

Kathy Harris got shipped by banana boat
        . . . somewhere,
        with her molars clenched tight,
        lest she'd say something fair.
Our allies all hate us and won't pay their share!
 
Unlike Old Mother Hubbard,
        our Cabinet is bare
        'cause too many bones were secreted in there.

John Ashcroft gave a Crisco party,
        but couldn't love his neighbor;
        heads called him a zealot
        who worshipped a slaver.
        I'm the 'Appointee of Justice' now
        . . . and Interior
        . . . and Labor.
 
The Capitol's still crawling with red-necks and Gators
     and lots of those left-over buddies of Nader's.
     But there's no help for ME!
     My maid's always tardy.
     There's not one decent typist in this G.D. whole Party!
 
Now I want to return to Texas and my home in . . .
       er, what I meant to say was, 'Wyomin'.'
       I want to go home!
       I'm ill and not young.
      And I'm out of those pills that go under my tongue.

The words that you left us . . . JUST COUNT . . .
      ring like thunder.
    Like tinnitus,
      they bite us,
      and keep us from slumber.
 
Oh, please, Mr. Gorax, we feel awful bad.
     We know you won Florida.
     You can ask Georgie's Dad!
     You won Broward
     and Palm Beach,
     Miami-Dade too.
     We found chads up in Seminole
     punched out in Jeb's shoe.
 
Oh sure, you were boring, too smart and uptight.
     You sighed way too much and were ready to fight.
     But Gorax, we need you!  Turns out you were right!
     MORE THAN HALF of the ballots were for you that night!
 
And the rest of the voters are ready to fold,
     Just buy them a shot and a beer that is cold.
     They'll love you!  You'll see!
     All they want is a guy
     who can throw back a brewski,
     shout "Mud in your eye!"
 
You know it's all true,
     and it's your obligation --
     For the sake of our children,
     for the sake of the Nation,
 
Oh Gorax, please help us!
     Oh what can we do?!
     If you'll come back to Washington
     We'll be nice to you.
 
We'll make Trent shut his trap
     . . . as for Hatch and Delay,
     well, the heck with them both,
     we'll just send them away!
 
We'll give you the White House
     We'll increase your wages.
     And Tipper can head up the United Nations!
     Or 'Senator Gore' of Utah or Maine!
     You just say the word, boss,
     she'll be in the game!
 
Oh Gorax, please come back and give us good news!
     Speak for the trees, or whomever you choose!
     Even speak for the Gays!  Speak all the great truths!
     God Bless America!
     God Bless the Jews!
 
If you'll help us out now, Al,
     why, here's what we'll do . . .
     We'll make you the President in 2002!
     And in 2004, we'll be right up to date,
     You can stick around longer . . . say, 2008!"
 
-   The Gorax © 2001