Georgie at the bat

(The author tips his hat to Ernest Thayer’s “Casey at the Bat.”)

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the White House gang that day;
The score stood four to two with just an inning more to play.
Then Ken Lay got indicted and DeLay he got the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A savvy few took flight, to avoid a sure arrest.
Others clung to hope which springs within the human breast;
They thought that if their boy could get a whack at that —
They’d put up even money now with Georgie at the bat.

But Dick Cheney preceded George as did also Karl the Rove,
The former was a bully and the latter was a toad;
So on the stricken ‘Publicans’ a deathlike silence sat,
There seemed but little chance of Georgie’s getting to the bat.

But Rove he spun the treason, just to scheme another day,
And Cheney dodged the questions and then quickly snuck away,
And when the dust had lifted, and we saw what had occurred,
There was Cheney safe at second and Rove a-hugging third.

Then from loyal throats there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the beltway, as it rattled up the hill.
It blasted on the TV and the press corps took the bait.
For Georgie, mighty Georgie, was advancing to the plate.

There was no ease in Bush’s manner as he stepped into his place.
False pride was in his bearing and that grin was on his face.
And when he heard the cheers and jeers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas G. Dub at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Hopeful, hands applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Fear flashed in Dubya’s eyes, grin a-fading from his lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And the would-be hero, Bush just stood frozen there,
Close by the trembling batsman, the ball unheeded sped —
“That ain’t my style!” plead Bush, “Strike one,” the umpire said.

And from his staunch supporters, went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill the umpire!” shouted Rummy, and the press took up the chant.
As according to the spinners, the pitch had been errant.

With a smile of “his” Christian charity, his face was seen by all;
The umpire stilled the rising tumult, calling out “Play ball.”
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Bush, again, was inert and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fake,” cried Bob Novak, and the media-whores added, “Fraud.”
But one cute remark from McClellan and again the crowd was awed.
They saw his face grow pale and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they hoped their leader wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

That grin now gone from Bush’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered, by the force of Bush’s blow.

All around this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The bands are playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere workers laugh and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy for the GOP — Mighty Bushie has struck out.