PrintMarch 22, 2007
Hipocralypse Now! (a poem)
The Oscar's burnish slowly wanes,
That which bathed those tinsel clowns,
As cleaners tease the Kool-Aid stains
From tuxedos and designer gowns;
Sullied in salute to Hipocralypse,
A liberal religion newly forming,
Fired with fervor from messianic lips,
Big Al's Church of Global Warming.
Big Al, and boy, he's getting big,
Robust, red-faced when preaching,
Has found himself a money gig,
With his global warming screeching.
It's amazing liberal fools will pay
To follow a bigger fool,
Who claims to know the one true way,
Al's so hot now that he's cool.
But wait, back home in Tennessee,
Reverend Al reveals some flaws,
That to heretics like you and me,
Belie his reverence for the cause:
An electric bill for just one house,
That equals ten for you or me;
Just one of four for Tipper's spouse;
What's that we smell? Hypocrisy?
But Kool Aid kids give Al a pass
They let him buy his absolution,
Phony carbon offsets to cover his ass
And excuse his gross pollution.
You won't see Al in economy cars,
Or commercial airline scenes;
Big Al is now among the stars,
It's private jets, long limousines.
The Reverend holds his Oscar high
Soaking up warm accolades,
Almost our president this fool guy,
Now riding in almost-parades.
Yep, Al's found his new religion;
Preaching Hipocralypse Now!
And Hollywood's his cooing pigeon,
Or more correctly Al's cash cow.
So you're basking in the limelight, Al, your nose back in the tent;
But, Al, an Inconvenient Truth: you're still not President.
