Obamick

Alas, poor Obamick!

I knew him, myself: a folk
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy pants:

He hath borne me from my youth;
and fondled him upon my knees, but now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rims at it.

Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft.
Where be your lies now? Your
false cajoles? Your lying lips? Your flashes of mimic,
that were wont the maniacs to adore?

Not one now, to mock your own grinning?
Quite chap-fallen art thou my teleprompter friend?

Now get you to my Muchelle's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that.

My Obamick I knew thee well.

The play of Obama is an interesting hamlet of reprieve from all that is holy and noble.

There sits yond Eric sans Holder, making quips of light joy in freeing terrorists to live in luxury hotels in the west, at their expense, the same properties they would be flying planes into.
Yet in this while, the fair Eric of white parentage hiding in blackness, he quips even more that terrorists have more morality and regrets after 9 11, than an American in Vice President Richard Cheney.

But alas, there sits the merchant of New York, knife blade in hand in Heir Geithner, seeking his pound of flesh from American executives while filleting choice cuts like a serial murderer off of the American virgin, sacrificed in her treasuries to feed the European pallet for world order.

Then enters Madam Napolitano, high tech lyncher of blame men named Sir Clarence Thomas of the Court of Supreme, while skewering Christians as terrorists, Patriots as enemies of the state and Americans as attendees to concentration camps, all the while spreading the Obama plague upon the masses as her much prolonged wars on brown skinned border busters with guns is not cropping enough of them.

Oh my, enter here stage left, Botox Biden, the traitor and Aaron Burr, with tartish daughter of foul mouth and a nasal capacity for the snuff which South American terrorists prosper from.

Effervescent as always like a boil and bubble toil and trouble, our lady Hillary Hamrod Clinton, looking old, beleaguered and old, walks upon the stage more like Dicken's Miss Tavisham, looking for a cake to eat under the spider webs of a youthful bride abandoned at the altar and knowing this is the witches brew she is now joined by wished upon monkeys in her sovereign's pants.

The Jester, Rahm, there he sits, pale, paler and palest with his crew which seem like draculas in fear of the sun, as Carville, Begala, Stephanopoulos all form a grave digger's crew, ghouls, wearing the stinky jewelry of the deceased and the apparel of those they have politically slain, not quite yet aired out and in a stench as foul as Jester Rahm's mouth.

In the shadows, never quite making an appearance is the resident Cassius from a former play, "et tu Axelrod", on quivering lips doth he speak, looking like Adolf Hitler's menacing protege, David of Chicagoland formed.
No lie is too large and no Obama brain too small to massage to the teleprompter's whims which he directs the cast too well.........er ill.

Such players, such scamps, rogues, charlatans, scamps, pirates whose mere mention of their adjectives, raise their hands in unison and answer, "Here, here, one and all!"

Frailty thy name is Obama
To be or not to be that is the question
Tis a fah fah better thing I do in being me than being me
In sleep sound and troubles abound
The quakes shake my inner core of facing the gent in me
To grunt and sweat in the cowards call
The conscience veiled makes brave souls of all
Hush, hush, I thought I heard her calling my name
A voice in my dark always whispers the same

Something is rotten in the state of Obamamark
Hark, hark, here is something rotten in the state of Obamamark

me thinks the obama doth protest too much

agtG