Posted by
Bitter Citizen on Thursday, December 17, 2009 4:53:37 PM
Al Gore is now a poet: the media says it is so, so it must be true. Apparently Big Al has included a poem in his most recent book on climate hysteria named Our Choice: A Plan to Solve the Climate Crisis. Not surprisingly bloggers and repeaters (we used to call them reporters) are lining up to sing the praises of Al's newfound talent. ( Is there a Nobel Prize for poetry?) William Petrocelli in a Huffington Post piece concluded a sycophantic, drooling article about the climate prophet (profit) by showing utter amazement that Al would have time to write a poem given the burdens that he shoulders. He then ends his tribute to Al by comparing his poetic skills to William Butler Yeats. Good Grief! I will not punish you by printing Al's poem. It can be found on the internet of course, but suffice it to say that it is a load of nonsense and gibberish, like most of what Al says.
In the spirit of the Copenhagen climate talks, I decided to try my hand at writing inspired prose. I doubt that anyone will compare my work to Yeats', but mine makes more sense than Al's, and it's more fun. Well here goes.
A Poetic Tribute to the Climate Prophet (Profit)
One warm July in days gone past
a fat man came to call
Heed my words! he shouted out
or disaster on you shall fall!
The world's too hot! he yelled at us
and the fault is all on you
you drive too much, you eat too much
and your thermostat is set on seventy two
It's always hot this time of year
we said in our defense
the sun is high in the sky
and it's rays are quite intense
And as far as our consumption goes
we produce, therefore we get
you eat too much too, you big fat man
and you flew here on a jet!
Do as I say, not as I do, he screamed
his voice now getting shrill
I am the climate prophet
sent to your shiny city, sitting on it's shiny hill
We think it's profit that you seek
instead of prophecy
now go away from our city gates
and in peace please let us be
to this day outside our gates
be it hot or cold or wet
upon a stump this fat man sits
apocolyptic visions in his head
as we walk by, we look away
but we can hear him yet
muttering about the end of time
and taking back HIS internet