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September 09, 2007

Comments

It is a singular talent of this cretin, Bush, that he can crap out of his mouth....And ours, that we can continue to listen to it!!!!!

Delving a little more into George's mind, I imagine he's thinking the following:

George's Lament

Time rushes it's End, yet Dawn's not unfurled
God in his Place and all reich with the World.

I've tried, how I've tried, with lies and in scorn,
To heed His whisper: "Corrupt and suborn,

Reshape all this land as feudal in mold,
And make highly noble the Corporate Fold."

The tools I was given were ancient, yet bold,
The same long employed by barons of old:

Terror and Fear, sown Division and Shame,
All proved fabulous used in my name.

That I mastered them well I offer as proof
That Wrong is now Right, and Lying is Truth.

The Past I've turned clay, and molded to shape
A tale of History that's but its rape.

And all the Dead lying in wait of Charon
Died not in vain but for cause of my own

As good sheeple should. For God has decreed
Me the Decider, they, fuel for my leede.

So why are my minions all falling away,
Treacherous scum, in confused disarray?

And over those things so small and pic'yune
It boggles the mind: mere Torture's the tune

They're playing on strings, while sobbing in pain
Like delicate schoolgirls caught in the rain!

It sure would be funny if not for the gall:
They're "terrists", stupid, not human at all!

And, as for the Rights in that faded old Bill?
They only apply if there's no one to kill.

So, save all your 'plaints and your quaintness of Law,
God says I am Master. Regard me with awe.

The whole concept of ass-kicking is so repulsive it defies any comparison. Whose ass are we kicking? Iraqi ass? Why? Because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time! A bullie's answer is Petraus' answer. George Washinton must be turning in his grave!

That's George Washintong, I'm sorry!

George Washington

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart....Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
10 My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

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