GOP debate

Ten brittle obsidians,

Trapped on a stage,

Much like hotel Gideons,

All full of rage.

As the stagecoach full rolls on,

Clop, clop by clop,

Each ob, quite his own icon,

Claws toward the top.

They are headed east, these gems,

All set to rule.

They are pachyderms, not Dems –

Nobody's fool.

This fine group became just ten,

Chosen by chance.

The fact that they all are men,

And not just ants,

Is due to a pre-assay

Of their defects.

They would all have hell to pay,

So, one suspects,

If the scratches on their face

All came to light,

They would lose, in line, their place –

Thus, miss the fight.

Any way, they're in it now,

Each on his own.

Heaven knows who takes the bow,

Who gets the bone.

One of them will surely win –

He's quick to say –

With a quip, a knife-hard grin,

He makes your day.

As the stagecoach rolls along,

This long-sought stage,

There is but a single song,

All on one page.

For this full cartload of jewels,

There's just one goal:

This is not a pack of mules;

They've all been sold.

That bright starlight from the east

Urges them on

To a four-year, magic feast,

A brand-new dawn.

Ten brittle obsidians,

Still on the road.

When will they bid us come in --

Take off the load –

Via the rose garden path,

Past the West Wing,

To the oval aftermath,

Where the angels sing?


Curtis W. Long

Curtis W. Long

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