The NRA’s Horrora

The NRA Museum would
I gather bow to members’ taste
And—not to be misunderstood
As bloodbath licensers disgraced—
Put on display a plaster head
Of each one of Aurora’s dead.

Or better yet if next of kin
Would donate bodies full of holes,
A taxidermist from within
Could sort of resurrect poor souls
Who’d showed how firepower harms
When everyone cannot bear arms.

Most sad would be some little kid
Who never lived to own a gun.
So few in Congress dare forbid
Destroying future youngsters’ fun  
In shooting up a cinema
With rifles bought within the law.

Mitt Romney and Obama feel
The pain, they say, of families’ toll.
But both deem in the public weal
A national lack of gun control.
Or so it seems, since neither speaks
Of something civil havoc wreaks.

Our right-of-center Supreme Court
In rulings on Amendment Two
Has thrown the NRA support
And said the right to tote means you,
Not just militias as was framed
By Founding Fathers, who’d be shamed.

Their land posterior has grown
To be among advanced states worst
In willful shootings all bemoan
But mostly pundits dare call cursed.
Until such lunacy’s undone,
The NRA owns Washington.