Ketanji Brown-Jackson, Our New Justice Supreme
The tree of government is triply branched,
In three portions split, in three segments tranched:
Nearest the root is where Congress is housed
(Of whose brainless bugs, it should be deloused!)
The branch Executive, next in esteem
Is led by a dotard whom we must deem
Diminished—If the case be made quite plain
Of a man for whom we’ve naught but disdain.
Climbing up our Constitutional tree
We grasp the slight branch of article three.
Of its worth, our Founders thought so little
They hardly gave it a jot or tittle!
But lo! Mark well how the times have been changed
The Articles shuffled and re-arranged,
So that, in a flash, the third is the first
The order upended, turned, and reversed.
Now, we look at with submission and awe
Not those who make, but interpret the law:
Nine lawyers in gowns of solemn black robed
On whom, regrettably, we have bestowed
Lifetime appointments. What a strange decree
Made by a putative democracy!
Here’s a high caste who fears no removal—
Deaf to the people’s loud disapproval.
Upon this third branch alights a new face—
One selected for her sex and her race;
For the womb she wields, the tint of her skin
Yes!—These are the conditions of Joe Biden!
“Find me a woman!”, said he to his staff
(In a lucid moment, before a gaffe…)
“One whose chrom’somes, when counted, number two,
One whose pigment bears an ebony hue;
One whose legal theory matters much less
Than the female parts that hide ‘neath her dress;
One well equipped with vagina and breasts—
Don’t bother with grades on her law school tests!
They’re no good measure for true competence,
For knowing a jurist’s jurisprudence.
No—Such Matters are grossly archaic,
Just assure me she lacks balls and a d***.
Assure me she’s black, with no hint of white
For, as you know, that pale race is a blight!
You hear me, you dog-faced pony soldier?—
Time is wasting, and I’m getting older.
Now go! Find this gal, and keep your search short,
Bring me a black woman for the high court!”
So said the man who’s whiter than paper,
Feebler than tissue, lighter than vapor;
Clad in his colorless Scotch-Irish skin,
This dismantler of “Whiteness”—Joe Biden.
His staff then nodded, in happy assent
Pleased that their boss would keep his covenant;
For did he not promise, some years ago,
That on a black woman, he would bestow
The appointment? Now, the timing was ripe
For him to make good on his campaign’s hype!
All that was needed was an open spot
With which he could fill his pick of the lot.
At last arrived the opportunity
(Perhaps to save his dead presidency).
Concluding his service, set to retire
Was the forgettable Justice Breyer.
For his replacement, a search had begun
That led to Miss Ketanji Brown-Jackson:
A woman adorned by every merit
A “dazzling” candidate fit to inherit
Steve’s chair. But first, she must appear before
Senators amassed on the chamber floor.
Of questions posed to her, there was no lack—
Some modest in tone, some pitched to attack;
Some were awash in rank sycophancy
While others quizzed her biologically.
By New Jersey’s finest, Cory Booker
(A second-rate dramatist and looker)
Brown was eulogized, right there on the spot,
As if by a wine-drunk lachrymose sot.
For sobriety, though, and shedding of light,
Real, honest inquiry, and deeper insight,
It’s not to fawning Democrats we turn,
But the probing mind of Marsha Blackburn.
She spent her brief hour of inquisition
Asking the judge for a definition,
Not of laws civil, crim’nal, nor common,
But of that bewildering thing called “woman”.
“What is a woman?”, the senator asked,
Her true purpose veiled, in innocence masked;
For she knew, by asking, she’d set a trap
‘Round which, at most, Miss-Brown Jackson would tap.
But tap she would not! She declined, instead
To speak the blunt, obvious truth in her head;
To announce right there, unequivocally
There’s quite a large difference ‘tween “he” and “she”;
That the two, in kind, are rather unique
And not at all veiled in “gendered” mystique;
That a male, well-muscled, burly and strong
Has, between his thighs, an organ that’s long;
That, when aroused, stretches up to the sky
(Stirred by his giddy Chromosomal “Y”!)
And that, for the sex that’s dainty and fair,
No such erection encounters the air;
No rising phallus, full-swollen with glee—
No—she wears her passion with more subtlety.
Forsooth! It more oft goes undetected
A light unlit, a tower un-erected.
But on Ms. Brown-Jackson, all this was lost:
As She remained terse, no matter the cost.
To Blackburn’s question, her answer was brief,
Yet so long on nonsense, it beggars belief.
“What is a Woman? Ms. Brown, do you know?”
To which the judge sheepishly answered, “No”.
“Of sex, I fear, I’ve not quite got the gist.
What do I look like? A biologist?!
A master of such inscrutable arts
As where a male ends, and a female starts?
’Tis a complex field in which I’m unschooled
By which all are misled, and many fooled.
Sadly, I lack the keen erudition
To probe this dense, impregnable question.
You ask if a woman I can define:
I haven’t the power; I’ll have to decline”.
Thus saith Brown! Our new justice Supreme
Whose radical bent, straight charms can’t redeem.
So as to avoid my speaking amiss
I’ll end my importunate poem with this:
By failing to know her biology
Brown’s divulged her gross ideology.