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...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities
The secret fear of the nicest guys
Insists their smiles are merely lies
While underneath their decent skin
Is buried a soul that's steeped in sin.
They live in terror of the day
When the fairness they worship falls away,
Revealing a petulant scheming child
Who seeks fellow men to be mocked or reviled.
Though buttressed by dreams and good intent,
The souls of the nice guys are brutally bent;
Twisted by loneliness, angst, and fear
And aching for reasons never made clear.
To busy themselves they relentlessly strive
To have a good time while remaining alive;
Sweet fantasies cushion reality's blows
And protect them from everything nobody knows.
The nice guys hold their anger back;
They're sensitive to sneak attack.
These confrontations fray their nerves
As life, again, throws wicked curves!
It's said that nice guys finish last
(Though they'd insist that's in the past);
Have the nice guys risen above it all
Or just engineered a nastier fall?
And now the wart has grown so large it's split my shoe apart!
To see a doctor right away would probably be smart,
But I'm having real trouble getting my butt out the door,
For the nasty thing is burrowing a hole right through the floor!
It's halfway to the basement now and pulling me along;
I'm straining hard to fight it yet afraid I'm not that strong!
I'm clawing at the floorboards as it pulls me through the hole;
So how could I anticipate its acting like a mole?
And now the wart's grown arms and legs and pulled its foul self free!
It's disengaged from my big toe and quickly starts to flee.
I suppose that I should give it chase but I'm feeling rather tired;
Instead I'll rest and then reflect on all that has transpired.
Bush paused a bit and noticed it was nearly half past eight;
Yes, once more, he'd been a bore and talked on far too late.
All the guests, brightest and best, were bored out of their minds;
Wishing him, on playful whim, foul plagues of different kinds!
Danforth Quayle, at Bush's hail, rises from his seat,
Nods a bit, but that is it--he must avoid the heat!
Quayle stays mum, 'cause Bush ain't dumb; Dan's not the talking breed!
Not real old, and hardly bold (as safe as George might need).
Redford's face his only grace, Quayle's some pathetic hawk;
Guardsman Dan, while some faced 'Nam, write phony P.R. talk!
God's commands he understands, like how abortion's sin;
Quayle says wives should not take lives when rapists leave one in!
The right wing's voice, Dan's not pro-choice; the Vice Prez he insists
That she adopt, or she'll be stopped by laws if she persists!
Bush himself, upon his shelf, has bloopers by the score:
He said then, "Pearl Harbor's when? My memory is poor!"
"Read my lips," and other slips, keep us from trusting him;
Here's my perception: re-election chances are quite slim.
His speech done, Bush makes a pun, leaving the press laughing;
Unrehearsed, he exits first, to avoid the photographing.
Bush unwinds with fried pork rinds, bad golfing, and horseshoes;
Kennebunkport is his sort of place to beat the blues!