Duck and Cover

O George Bush! my own George! our fearful risk is run,
Our troops have taken all Iraq the prize we sought is won,
Our goal is near, the Media's here,
                                  most people have stopped retching,
While lenses pan the flight deck's span,
                                    your air-force gear's most fetching,
But George! George! George!
   Your script was far too glib
     For once a shooting war is done
       Each death brings home a fib.

O George Bush! my own George! wise up and mind the polls;
Wise up - for us the game's near up - for us the ballot calls,
For you bouquets, then sombre wreaths -
                                                  for me the Hutton hearing,
For now they call, the swing vote few,
                                            for facts to fund their cheering;
So George, my George,
   If still I count at all,
     Placate Putin, chum with Chirac,
       And - please return this call.

My George Bush does not answer, his speech beyond control,
My President heeds not my plea,
                                      though Congress' cheers console,
While troops blood-bound stick in that ground,
                                            and contracts oil our wheels
The chance of loot, if shared to boot, may buy off law's appeals;
Dear George, respond! Dumb mobs, rejoice!
   I start to feel faint dread,
     That I am mired in George's mud -
       The sell-out, sold instead!

                    (Apologies to Walt Whitman)