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.