Kick-rear, drank a beer, hoo-la-la country song title number 101

"You are some body, yo just ain't my somebody"

A Pseudonym for Kingdom, Come

In the place, that is not named,
in the hall, that no one finds;
there is a scribe who sits,
and ponders, upon time.

There is a name he seeks,
a name, he can not find.
Time it heals all scars,
and memory, it too may fade.

This scribe, he doth scratch,
a pate that is so sullen;
for want of years, and light,
he doth in age lose sight.

But memory somehow serves,
to render, incomplete
a soul without begrudging,
a soul, imperfectly complete!

And so it doth go,
upon the book of ages,
that One there is above,
who lives beyond the sages.

And in that mortal book,
there one solemn name.
And in that name...sanctification
of a love beyond one's nation.

And so, within this life,
I will continue, albeit same
to seek that mortal memory
of the Love, that is...His Name.

Huckabee For President

We need a fighter for our side in the culture war, not some weak-kneed triple divorcée like Guiliani, or a brain-blown Manchurian candidate like McCain. Get on the train and steamroll the Democrats in '08!

9:25 AM, 101st Floor

Though perched above the fires
that roil and send up acrid clouds
for now my view is clear

Before me untouched majesty
stretched out across a whitecapped sea
too far to be so near

Around me: screams and sobs and cries
and panicked prayers and futile rage
of those about to die

Heat must rise, and so it brings
in waves upon a fiery tide
an anguished tear to eye

Confronting my oblivion
yet still with choice and still with will
for minutes or for hours

Before me on my office desk
the icons of a life soon gone
to rubble with the towers

A picture frame of summer scenes
a beach with children, smiling wife
my shattered conscience learns

That all such things are treasures
for beyond the frame and through the glass
the second tower burns

Machines have failed, there is no way
to reach out from this flaming tomb
and touch those fleeting lives

Yet still I live, in mockery
powerless to save the life
from which my will derives

And so, again, that single choice
the choice to burn or fall and die
sum total of my years

I stand as I unknot my tie
then fold it, lay it on my desk
damp from unchecked tears

And walk to where the window gapes
where others, early pioneers
have given will their voice

And face against the endless wind
eyes closed, mouth dry and clenching fists
I make my final choice

Nikki Giovanni on Current Events

Oh you rotten Musharraf!
You nasty, no good wanna-be white man!
You can blame the brothers
But we know you offed Bhutto
you nasty SNAKE
with your olive-drab army pants

You gonna get it when my bitch-goddess is callin' the shots

My bitch-goddess is gonna tear you up
you rotten Musharraf