In Our Comfort Zone

I know, I know. It shouldn’t be:
Hispanics here illegally.
Eleven million at last count,
A stunning figure bound to mount.
Five states have ruled it’s not okay.
The rest, though, look the other way.

The World is Not Our Beat

Hats off to Secretary Gates
As he departs the Pentagon.
Undiplomatically he states
How much conclusion is foregone
That when it comes to join a fight
Most NATO allies opt for flight.

Longfellow Revisited

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the bus ride of one the Tea Party holds dear.
In the spring of the year two thousand eleven
When only a hermit knew not Sarah Palin,
The end of whose journey was not Concord, Mass.,
But New Hampshire with hope to Mitt Romney outclass.

While Liz Lay Dying

So righteously he pointed out,
He didn’t trample on the law.
It might be true, at least there’s doubt,
(Although it wedges in my craw)
Donated funds weren’t to campaign
But keep his wife from further pain.

The Ultimate Put-Down

We put down pets in final throes
With sadness but without remorse.
To hasten pain-racked kin’s repose,
We don’t let nature run its course.
We drug them under hospice care,
And of their end, they’re unaware.

Ach Lieber

Tony Weiner, New York’s crotch king,
Shouldn’t have to sound so bitter.
To be sure, the sort of ribbing,
Re: the bulging-undieTwitter,
Echoes taunts from boyhood playgrounds.
Why not change, then, how his name sounds?