The New Yorker closes out the year
With rhymed good-byes, but not so here.
I’d rather greet two thousand five
Delighted to be yet alive.
Mr. President, you’ve four more years
To calm this country’s deepest fears
In districts, whether red or blue,
Of terror, war, Dick Cheney, too.
I’ve one small favor that I ask
(It shouldn’t be too hard a task)
To learn -- I’m confident you can --
The syntax of a Harvard man.
Tom Potter’s now our Mayor. Sir,
Your predecessor’s out. Will her
Close friends who build both tall and thin
(Jack hates their condos) still be “in”?
I hope they're not. Our "Mr. Bigs"
Can live in less priapic digs.
Give Erik, Randy, Sam, and Dan
Some bureaux, or you’ll be the man
By taking all, who also takes
Away their chance to make mistakes.
And finally, as the old year ends
Best wishes to my blogging friends.
To Pablo, Jack, to Brian Hines,
A year filled with auspicious signs;
To Betsy, Shelley, Sheilah too
Twelve months of joyous whoop-de-do;
Four seasons free of doom and gloom
To Tammy’s current nom de plume;
An orbit’s worth of mirthful time
To all whose names I couldn’t rhyme.
Best wishes for a happy year
From Isaac to the blogosphere.
And be you Ind. or Rep. or Dem.,
Be glad to be American. Iamb.