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PrintJanuary 9, 2008
The Plastic Lady (a poem)
The pundits were writing Plastic Lady's epitaph,
Pointing to lines going down on a graph.
She had a bad finish out west a little ways;
To socialist Utopians, it was the end of days.
All the acting lessons were to no avail,
And it reached a point where she wanted to wail.
Then a reporter's question evoked some self-pity.
How would she react? It might not be pretty.
She spoke of fear for country and how much she cares.
As acolytes looked on, she could feel the stares.
So she thought of her future, fancying it brief;
She was being robbed of her birthright, by Obama, that thief!
She felt the only emotion that within her existed:
Concern for herself. Her eyes became misted.
Thinking of Obama, the man of her fears,
She found some salvation in crocodile tears.
The lemmings were snookered; she seemed so real.
She finally could combat Obama's appeal.
Confounding the commentators and their polls,
She rallied her base of malcontent trolls.
Is that too demeaning? What do you say?
What kind of people change votes in one day?
Imagine, thinking Plastic Lady bona fide,
Simply because she acted and cried.
Was it really better than an eighth-grade audition,
That callow deception in the service of ambition?
Yet the efforts of a demagogue only third-rate,
Worked some hapless souls into a passionate state.
So that's America in this modern age,
Heading toward her demise, perhaps the last stage.
It just proves one thing, as to the left we do swerve.
Ol' Thomas was right: We get the government we deserve.
