Catch the baseball in a mitt
After you oil it
And break it in
By pounding the opposing fist
Into it time and time again;
Protect your catching hand with this
Carefully crafted supple
Skin of a mercifully dead cow.
It is necessary
And every player is happy
To have a good one.
But elect it President?
Under the rock
In a moist, wooded glen
Rests a solitary newt;
Slippery looking,
Eyes rotating
And tongue darting.
Would you name your child
After one,
Let alone elect one
As your President?
If it were your name at birth,
Would you not change it
At the first legal
Opportunity?
Would one fit nicely
As the leader of you own
National community?
Nuns were famous
For having two first
Men’s names.
Sisters Harry George
And Robert Timothy
Taught third grade
At St. Someone’s.
How about Sister Ron Paul?
Doctor or not,
The lack of a surname
Would be suspect
In a President.
We could not help but wonder
Where his last name went!
And Obama
Rhymes with yo’ momma,
Sounds Arabic
And reminds us of
A famous terrorist
He ordered destroyed;
Can we we trust him
Over the swelling rhetoric
And bile of campaign berm
Into an ambivalent second term?
All our hope
Has, surprisingly,
Not yet been completely spent
But is strained and depleted
By each and every
President.
Alas,
A candidate by any other name
Would lie as quickly
And distort history and facts
With poised and polished spontaneity;
The name is not a part
Of the game
But, on smirking reflection,
Hearing what we hear
And seeing what we see,
Perhaps it should be.