MA special election prompts putrid political poetry at The New Agenda

The worst poem I’ve ever read was posted online somewhere in response to the news of Princess Diana’s death. I’ve never been able to find it again, but this is how I remember one stanza:

My mum rang and said “Quick! Turn on the telly!”
And I saw Princess Di was dead, and my legs turned to jelly.

It went on like that, and its author felt compelled to share it with a face-palming planet. That may have been my first inkling that this new-fangled internet thing was going to end badly.

However, a happier occasion—the candidacy of Massachusetts AG Martha Coakley to fill Ted Kennedy’s old senate seat—inspired an outburst of doggerel yesterday that truly rivals the above.

NuAgender Optixmom, who regularly strains credulity by making up highly improbable requests for advice on dealing with sexism and then helpfully supplying the guidance no actual person asked for, outdid herself by front-paging the following on the TNA blog:

Eenie, Meenie, Mienie, and Moe,
Eenie’s the gal who is running the show.
The other three M’s want Teddy’s seat,
but now it’s the gal that they all have to beat.

When all four are equal on paper and ink,
“don’t vote based on gender” will make the worst stink.
But historically that’s how we’ve casted our vote,
it’s just been for the M’s, so take heed and take note.

We need all the Eenies to balance the game
because Eenies and M’s don’t govern the same.
You will find it in data all over the net,
that Eenies work harder to get what we get.

The Herald knows Eenies, “still walk a tightrope.”
From comments on their hair to their darn facial soap.
They say she, “shows chutzpah…that’s Kennedyesque.”
On the campaign trail or behind a work desk.

So pretend your Ms. Eagan and, “Give it a go!”
Please consider the Eenies over Meenie, Mienie, or Moe.

Sweet martyred baby Jeebus weeping disconsolately over a Scholastic Rhyming Dictionary, if that doesn’t make you want to stab your eyes out with a spork, you’re made of sterner stuff than I am.

Since her decision to pair words like “ink” and “stink” rendered poor Optixmom as tragically incomprehensible as Nell, I’m not sure what the figgety fuck she means here:

When all four are equal on paper and ink,
“don’t vote based on gender” will make the worst stink.

Is she saying if all four candidates are equal in merit, vote for the woman since women are underrepresented? Does she mean when women and men are equally represented, that principle will be rendered moot but given current inequalities, you should always vote for the woman?

Who can say? All I know is the whole thing makes me wanna tay ina win. Or maybe puke.

Posted by Betty Cracker on 12/09/09 at 07:38 PM • Permalink

Categories: PoliticsBedwettersPUMAsNutters

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I may have to resurrect WearingHobosFaces to respond to that drivel.

Reading the posts by Siskind’s five followers is like speed-dating the color illustrations in the DSM IV.

Can we expect Ms. Coakley to now have to put up with the fawning attention of these kooks who will send her emails asking about the coded message in her pantsuits?  Rise Martha, rise!

So pretend your Ms. Eagan and, “Give it a go!”

Okay, I can count two (2) things wrong with that line, and I am by no means a grammar, syntax or poetry maven:

1) The increasingly popular confusion of “your” for “you’re” (as opposed to “you are”).

2) There is, no, need for, that, comma, after the word, “and”.

Obviously someone has too much time on their hands

Those are some mighty fine rhyming couplets (I learned that in 3rd grade HIGH FIVE!).

Somewhere, in the dead of night, in a field butterfly-kissed by the moon,  Maya Angelou is digging her own grave so she can throw herself into it and roll over several times.

I wonder if the all those vagina-centric poseurs over there are thrilled to be referred to as an Eenie.  I’d be happy to call them that henceforth.

McGonagall, you should be living at this hour.

There once was a lady from NAG,
Who had no more brains than a rag.
Her word-smithing skill;
Could make a saint kill,
and throw himself off of a crag.

There once was a lady named Amy,
Whose followers simply were zany.
Each night was a high mass
Celebrating vaginas,
Even when they behaved like Dick Cheney.

I want to invent a new tool that will zap people who parade their bathetic subliterate middle-school attempts at versifying (and playwriting, MadamaB!) on the internet. I’m thinking of calling it “The Poetaser.” What do you think?

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