12,143. YOUR REASONING IS LIKE A POT-LUCK DINNER

YOUR REASONING IS 

LIKE A POT-LUCK DINNER

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land

of lethargy, of thee we stink. And

anther thing : 'Do let me go on I'll

jut rattle your cage you multifaceted

sick and losing bunch. Your mother

apparently ever the jewess is the same

key music as your fathers apparently 

always men of little compunction.'

Well now that you've made your

point, what' your point? Do we not

still have those purple-mountains of

majesty and those amber waves of

grain? 'Again I'll say, every pot-lid

I lift brings me a new aroma and I

truly never know what to expect.

Surprise! Those are frog-legs in the

potato soup. Tasting good is surely

a misnomer.' Well, OK, I'll admit

to something like that  -  we have

strange people playing their political

games, what they think are, anyway.

An old woman dodders on the edge

of her shelf, where the granary seeds

have fallen from and now sprouted

something else. She maybe once was

in someone's arms, now she's dead to

every charm  -  and Liberty still is her

name. 'I lift my lamp to the western

wind, the wailing wall of doubt, the

madmen on the fringe. Give me your

tired, your sick, and your lame, we

sure need something and it's all the

same to me. Land where your fathers

died? Who says that? Pilgrim's pride?

Grocery cart in the shallow waters of

eventide's bad design, with corn flakes

and twaddle-cakes dripping out each

pore, your children are now all useless.

I'll give you no more!' I declare! The

next President shall be a doctor, a 

soothsayer, a scientist, and a mare.