[As the Republican nominee begins his opening statement, President Obama reflects.*]
I
Ooooh . . . he speaks, the right’s Orion!
Expel your foul dis-charges–phew!
Could glares steal breath, Paulie Ryan,
‘Bout now you’d be turning blue!
Huh? Big spending cuts are needed?
Ah, Fed tax rates mustn’t rise.
And these . . . “facts” I’ve not conceded?
Why? They’re falsehoods, damn your eyes!
II
In the past we’ve had discussions–
“Paul—thanks for coming!“–I must bear
Rants on Market repercussions,
Treas’ry futures, budget snares.
Our job outlook’s pathetic; rarely
Has it been this bad, I think.
Want a deal to face this squarely?
Want emetics in your drink?
III
Aww! So sad the Roadmap folded–
All those hours and effort spent!
I confess, we push-and-polled it
‘Til we hastened its descent.
Of course, Grandma was affronted
When you shoved her off that peak.
The best you had I blunted.
(Is his time up yet? The geek!)
IV
Jeez, I’m starved! My chef Cristeta
Waits inside our hotel suite
With live lobsters (Don’t tell PETA!)
And the finest cuts of meat:
Marbled Kobe, umm, oven-roasted grouse;
Rocky Oysters, Poulet, Veal Fondue.
If this rube attains the White House,
They’ll be serving Shepherd’s Stew.
V
While I feign concern, compassion,
Truth and honor’s what he touts.
Well, get real, they’re out-of-fashion
In a country filled with louts.
I’m the Boss man, Chief Tirader,
The epitome of cool.
Ryan’s a dreary green eyeshader;
He says, “govern.” I say, “rule.”
VI
Ho, Bernanke! Print more money!
Yes, I’ll spend us out of debt!
Better not try to stop me, sonny;
You’d have reason to regret.
I hear you prize your honor; your rep, too.
Everyone says that you don’t faze.
Well, wait’ll you see what Time and Newsweek
Dump on you in coming days.
VII
Hmm, maybe I’ll pose a gun rights question
That boxes him in real tight.
Make him seem like Charlton Heston
To the middle and left of right.
Photoshop him shooting a moose
With a silly grin on his face;
Palin stands there with her thirty ought six–
Won’t please anyone ‘cept the base.
VIII
Wait! I’ll ask a friend at WashPo
To follow him to the loo;
Take a stall and tap his right foot,
Then report he saw Ryan’s shoe.
Or . . . a maid who needs her green card–
Who can tell what she might say
When a Timesman trolls for canards
On the Congressman’s recent stay?
IX
Just don’t panic! Who’s the master?
I won’t go down; I run the show.
If it seems I face disaster,
I can fabricate a foe
And a crisis which is breaking
On the weekend of the vote . . . .
Oh, my turn. “Thanks, Paul, for making . . . .”
There! Ego tamped. Now, speak. By rote.
*This piece is a parody–not an exact parody–of Victorian poet Robert Browning’s “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,” published in 1842.
Browning (1812-1889) is best known for his dramatic monologues, in which a speaker (not the author) unwittingly reveals himself to be quite different from his public persona.
“Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” is a variant of the dramatic monologue.
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