Debutantes of Defeat (a poem)

In 2003 they came to the Ball,

For some merry martial dancing;

Girlishly giggling in the Capitol hall,

Finding chords of war music entrancing.

Filled with excitement, throwing care to the wind,

DebiDems wanted Bush to be tough,

So the ladies signed on for a Ball with no end,

Without thinking it just might get rough.

But the dance card of war began to reveal,

That some people really were dying.

What? Death and violence are part of the deal?

That dumb cowboy must have been lying.

Lifting their hems, they ran for the doors,

Their hypocrisy blatantly stunning;

Shrieking defeat, they fled the dance floors,

Belles with no Balls, flat-out running.

Once hypocrite Hillary swirled the war floor,

Out-jingoing flat-footed Kerry;

Now Hil is shrilling she knew not the score,

Like whiney-voiced, tap-dancing Harry.

They went to the ball to advance their schemes,

They had planned, should the Martial Ball sour;

Lose the war, destroy Bush, fulfill their dreams,

They’d become the dance masters of power.

Hillary’s hip-hopping, Reid’s tapping like mad, club-footed Kerry’s still schlubbing,

And Pelosi in Damascus cornered Bashar for some old-fashioned, hot belly-rubbing.

Russ Vaughn is the poet laureate of American Thinker.