Bush

In His bone-white palace, abuzz all night,  
Sits George Bush, hedged in by Left and Right.  
    And He thinks of freedom, justice and His  
    Ranch.

His dreams, now becoming overwhelming,  
Send Him down to a secret cubicle delving.  
    A single notebook hides His artistic   
    Branch.

Standing against an age of modernisms  
He writes the purest rhymes, perfect rhythms.  
    He likes villanelles, but finds them to be too  
    Loose.

Sonnets flow from Him without a struggle,  
But when He finds it worth the gosh-darn trouble,  
    He writes seamless sestinas, which are a touch  
    Obtuse.