Donnet XCV
How wrong and bias’d must they be, 'tis shame
The media defineth words so wrong.
When I of her defeat did state my claim,
Erected I the fitting verb “to schlong.”
Yet here doth news deceive in denotation,
And thus doth make the public heir to lies;
When that word was my lips’ ejaculation
I was not focus’d twixt a fellow’s thighs.
O, “schlong’d” is nothing of that sordid sort!
And they know well I did not mean that meat;
’Tis common politics to “schlong’d” retort
When one is by opponent badly beat.
They know the word, and so I them distrust.
’Tis truly sad that they this meaning thrust!
Donnet CIII
Alack, what poverty the Muse brings forth;
Last night, mine eyes did witness humor’s death.
Comedic lines with not Thalia’s worth;
Fatiguëd jokes from liars’ jesters’ breath;
Where laughter from my lungs should be expell’d,
Instead but questions come to trouble me:
How can such jokes be told but unrebell’d?
Should not such mocking jesters punish’d be?
But Lo! ’tis true! these jesters are but few
Of many who of me have jok’d unfair!
O! how I wish to see them look’d into!
Perhaps arrested for their jokes’ foul air?
That jesters can unpunish’d me abuse,
Is crime more real than they of me accuse!
Donnet LXXVIII
So oft have I invok’d for all my muse,
To spread my knowledge of the dealer’s art;
My Sharpie, dried by rampant overuse,
Rewetted by the pourings of my heart.
And recognition follows, verily,
As storms that follow elemental peace.
Self-pride, in skill extraordinarily
Beyond the normal writer’s, doth increase.
Yet let me note a fascinating trend:
That frauds in journalism may attest
To errors typed that might my claims upend,
And prove my writing well below the best.
Let this be known, ye burners of false flame:
Mistakes and emphases may be the same!
Donnet LXVI
Tired with all these, for rest from thee, I cry,
For never has a leader heard such slander.
O, even Lincoln, though he would soon die,
Still watch’d a play that spoke no hate in candor.
While Roosevelt by illness was made lame,
No wicked wishes were on him bestow’d.
And Kennedy was granted youthful fame,
So when he died, in love’s parade he rode.
Did Reagan, when he stepp’d off of the screen,
O’er Hinkley’s gun, hear all these hurtful boos?
And though Barack has by me mockëd been
As Kenyan born, he bore not faker’s news.
It seemeth that no leader in the past
Has been so PRESIDENTIALLY HARASS’D!
