I’ve made
this note to tell ya’all
how G. W.
took a fall
down at
Llama Lil’s.
He’d spent
a happy
summer drumming, went
battling
east to snuff out Saddam
(another
warlike Son of Adam),
whimpered,
chickened, finally blew it
when he
bombed Baghdad. He knew it:
Congress
stormed that all its cash
was gone;
its Pres. had lost his dash.
Gulf
fighting-men were desert dust,
so burning
Bush became a must,
denoting
which way the wind was blowing.
But, ah, our
Georgie was quite knowing!
Yanked up
his roots without delay
and stole on
down t’Argie way,
where
National Socialists go to rest
and oil-rich
billionaires are blessed
and llama
collops are served for tea
down at
Llama Lil’s.
“I see,”
I hear you
say. “Now, tell me, what
is this to
do with the tale’s plot?”
Er, nothing,
really, just setting the scene;
if the
context’s right, it’ll keep you keen
for what’s
to come, suspense being all
when the
brain’s gone ‘phut’, back’s to the wall,
just like
the Bush who didn’t glow
on turning
those eastern lights down low.
Now,
whereabouts was I? Oh, yes!
Talking of
Llama Lil’s, no less,
that cafe
themed to long-neck meat.
Mmmm, this
story’ll be a treat.
Now, if
you’ll just let me get on,
I’ll offer
you a few more bon
mots about
the Shrublet’s day
after he’d
arrived to stay
down at
Llama Lil’s.
He rose
early next
morning, struck a pose
in front of
the mirror, took his teeth
from a glass
of Milton standing beneath
the shaving
light. He slipped them in.
Oh, my! What
a difference to those thin,
puckered
lips! He’s very human!
Back when he
was raging doom an’
gloom about
the eastern feast,
we’d thought
he was a wild beast,
one focus in
his tottering mind –
to rule
two-thirds of all mankind
by stealth
or force. But at Lil’s his brain
was
shite-free; all that went down the drain
as he
showered, deodorized and dressed,
strolled to
breakfast, at his best,
patted the
kitchen’s widdling cat,
down at
Llama Lil’s.
He sat
there; the
table was laid for two.
He’d arrived
at the cafe alone, so who
’d join him,
he puzzled – shrugged and picked
a dish from
the menu, Eggs Benedict.
While he
ate, then read the morning’s news
(such trash,
such lies, those slanted views!)
an extremely
tall man with a stately air
planted
himself in the other chair;
six foot four
he stood in his slippers,
ordered
himself a pair of kippers.
Ah, the
English, mused the Tree,
they had
such very pure thoughts about me,
like P. M.
Blair. What a mighty good egg
to give me
those men! I didn’t beg
for those
squaddies he sent. Pity they’re dead.
These, the
tremors that limped through his head
down at
Llama Lil’s!
‘Good morning’
he said to
the face contorted with yawning
before him,
‘That’s an unusual dish;
makes a fine
breakfast. I like little fish
when they’re
smoking over Iraqi fires
and toasted a
tad, not frizzed. They’re liars
who yell
that I grilled and charred those men
in my
glorious war way back when...’
He stopped.
Across the table the other
had thrown
his cutlery down. ‘Mother
of Christ,’
he roared. ‘You’re Bush! Idiot!
Fool! You
evil jerk! I’ve yet
to meet such
a Kissingered brain
in a numpty,
shell-thin skull. You’re insane.
Worse, your
policies...’ The Roar soared up
and onwards,
theories bawled as his cup
and saucer cracked its glaze, then shivered,
down at
Llama Lil’s.
Shrub
quivered.
The roll-on
deodorant he’d used before
rolled off
him in droplets. He hit the floor,
hunched
there sobbing at those harsh howls
that
poisoned eggs in the depths of his bowels.
The Voice
was ranting, raving, growing
in strength
and power, never slowing
to take up
air in that rattling chest,
over which
It wore a Vest.
The more the
Voice cursed and moaned,
the more the
Twiglet writhed and groaned.
His nails
purpled, his face was blackened
and still the
Voice-power never slackened.
It cowered
the eaves, slammed in the door
and Bush lay
toppled. Prone on the floor,
with a last
blind gaze at the piddlesome cat,
he gave up
the ghost on the cafe’s mat,
down at
Llama Lil’s.
The
point?
Ex-Prezzies,
choose well your joint:
don’t greet
a Brit at his kippers and tea
and make
certain he isn’t one of the free
when you’re
downed at Llama Lil’s.
