Ron heard the name Kublai Khan on television and that reminded him of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his poem Kubla Kahn. The only thing I’ve read by Coleridge was the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and that was because I had to. Seriously, sometimes I would get that confused with Silas Marner, a book I had to read in school as well.
So anyway, Ron being Ron, he got Coleridge’s Kubla Kahn stuck in his head and he wrote the following.
In Syria did BHO
An end to civil war demand:
Where Blood, the ancient river flowed
Through streets of Muslims’ dark abode
And into nearby lands.
So thrice spake he on world TV
Of red lines for humanity
And thought that once his word had spread
We’d no more witness gas assault
On those who lived in mortal dread
Where jihad made belief a fault.
But up in noisy consternation
From the depths of their downfall
Rose then the Red Bear’s revocation
Of Red lines and bluffs to call.
And like a flounder he was reeled in,
Pulled from waters he had muddied,
Strung upside down by his tail fin,
A fledgling fool Putin had studied.
The fount of mighty words receded
As his blunder he conceded
And to Congress then relinquished
Power fact had much extinguished.
With their ores refining swiftly,
Persians o’er their kouskous chuckled
While Israelis masks donned quickly,
American prestige was buckled.
Saliva gushing from the botox queen
And the Senate’s senile left-wing dean
Could not sustain the war-like chant
When grass roots said, “Oh no you can’t.”
Five years meandering in a smoky daze
Through town and state the shallow river flowed,
Until it reached that red line where it slowed
And quickly disappeared in full disgrace.
‘Twas then iWon heard voices near and far
Saying NOT let slip the dogs of war.
The glory of the chair of power
Resting firmly on the floor,
While ruling from his iv’ry tower
Suddenly down came the door!
And even far left-wing fanatics
Finally did their mathematics.
A virgin in a black burqa
In a vision once I saw:
She was a dark-eyed maid
And on her rababah she played,
Singing of global jihad.
Could she restore inside me
Through pure Qur’anic song,
My brothers all again beside me,
That with chanting loud and long,
I would rebuild that hope and trust
They allowed to slip away,
And start again to tax and spend,
Ride unicorns, eat pita crust,
And play golf every day.
Nay, weave a rope around him thrice!
For he is no good US friend
And will no US laws obey.
For he on pixie dust hath fed
And drunk the smoke of Maui blend.
He even sent along a cartoon to accompany the poem.
