The Love Song of J. Alfred Kerry

Perusing this item from the Democratic Daily blog; it occurs to me how singularly appropriate it is that Senator Kerry "feels like 1972 again", particularly since his spirit has never left those glory days of America bashing.

You might remember that was when Kerry made numerous false allegations about his country and the conduct of our soldiers in Vietnam. You might also recall that he recommended immediate, unconditional surrender and even as a member of the U.S. Naval Reserve, he met directly with the enemy. Some might call that treason, but I a too far too fair-minded for that.

Nevertheless, Kerry was, in fact, the primary contributor to the idea that the returning soldiers from Vietnam were dysfunctional losers (except, of course, for himself).

No wonder it feels like 1972 all over again to him-- and to most of the leaders of the Democratic Party!

I have nothing against Iraqi war veterans running for political office as Democrats. Good for them! But if they have any integrity at all; if they have any love of their country, then they will refuse to accept money that John Kerry raises for their campaign.

In fact, they should spit on it.

I dedicate the following poem to those who continue to dwell in those long-ago distant days of glory, where Kerry and his comrades made it politically correct to hate America. With apologies to Eliot and Prufrock.

THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED KERRY

Let him speak then, far and wide,
As politics becomes a great divide
Like some senator etherised upon a table;
Let him speak, in Democratic whining,
The sorrowful opining
Of restless nights in swift boats of the past
And a Christmas in Cambodia that didn't last:
A voice that monologues like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question
Oh, do not ask, “Why is he running?”
Let us just assume he's funning.

In the room Teresa comes and goes
Buying Michelangelos.

The yellow journalism oozing in the New York Times,
A yellow streak prevents cartoons from running in the Times
As editors decide what news to print within the corners of the paper
Blowing in the wind they find the rhymes,
That once propelled a generation to the street,
And infected a young narcissist from Yale
November's darling makes the phrase repeat,
It echoes loudly one more time and goes on sale.

And indeed there will be time
For the flip-flop hopping in the street,
Pandering along the boulevard;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to pander and to fake,
And time for all the smiles and many hands
That light the candles on your cake;
Time for you and you alone,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the ringing of a phone.

In the room Teresa comes and goes
Buying Michelangelos.

And indeed he will have time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and bask in glories there,
With the botox and the surgery and the hair
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
His morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
His necktie rich, immodest, highlighted by a diamond pin—
[They will say: “But how has he remained so thin!”]
Does he dare
Ignore the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

He should have been a ragged nominee
And disappeared with some humility.
. . . . .
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the votes, the vichyssois, and tea,
To go this far and not get the presidency?
Would it have been worth while,
Pretending to be great and then to smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Kerry, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
To vote for heroes, yes; but not for me",
But that is not what he meant at all.
That is not it at all.

No! he is not John Kennedy, nor was meant to be;
He's an emptiness within a nothing it is true
Capable of playing out a scene or two,
Teresa's prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

He will run … He will run
And if he does then where's the fun?

Shall he part his hair behind? Will he dare eat a mango?
Shall he wear Armani trousers, and skip the light fandango?
He has seen the mermaids voting, each to each.

Not one thinks they'll vote for him.

In the room Teresa comes and goes
Buying Michaelangelos

UPDATE: Please God no.