Al Gore has written a poem. I'm not joking. Vanity Fair is gushing over it. Here are the funniest parts (I won't bore you with the whole thing; I want some readership left after this post):
One thin September soon
A floating continent disappears
In midnight sun
Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea
Neptune's bones dissolve
The shepherd cries
The hour of choosing has arrived
Here are your tools
Reverend Al has inspired me. Here is my version:
One thin November soon
a global flim flam disappears
in public humiliation
Vapors rise, fevers burn
in the fetid, pestilent clot
of Gaia worshiping simpletons
The libtard cries
The hour of unmasking has arrived
the worshipers are tools
Vanity Fair
2 comments:
Oh, yeah. Your version smokes. Al's? My 6 year old writes better poems about her dolls.
Mr Gore needs a new hair cut to go with that. Something long, black and down in his face. And some tight emo jeans too.
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