Mad How Disease (a poem)


Words recently read have just so made my day,
Some whimsical wisdom from sage Austin Bay,
Who points out profoundly and slick as you please,
The Democrat Party has Mad How Disease.
The infection most certainly is iatrogenic,
From too many visits to Dr. Dean's clinic.
They should have been warned that they should be wary
Of getting too chummy with the Left's Typhoid Mary.

With such manifest symptoms, diagnosis is simple,
That boil on their butt is now more than a pimple.
Diagnosing the pathogen's really no chore:
Yellow streak down the back, an aversion to war.
Beginning mid—body there's a leftward progression,
Higher levels of  bile and mounting aggression.
Some victims of Mad How go totally postal,
Especially those diagnosed as being bi—coastal.

A most telling trait is a Roquefort stench
And delirious devotion to anything French.
Older victims on campus seem sallow and pale
With that sure sign of Mad How, a grey pony—tail.
Repetitive chanting, waving x—rated banners,
Are significant symptoms, as are infantile manners.
Shouts of 'Vietnam!' and 'Quagmire!' as foul epithets,
Could lead one to conclude this a form of Tourettes.

So what's the prognosis for the Party's infection?
That depends what is in the mad doctor's injection.
If it's more toxic serums of weakness and fear,
The fate of the victims is fatally clear.
Despairingly cynical, brimming with hate,
They're likely to share the other dodo bird's fate,
An ignoble end to their political journey,
A sheet over the face and Rove pushing the gurney. 

Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker