A contribution from Eugene Erigena, by whose shameless inelegance, I’m frankly appalled.

So soon! The month of April has arrived;
How swift the seasonal pace is contrived
To pass—yielding cruel winter to soft spring,
For whose balmy advent, the angels sing
An ethereal song of mirthful joy,
Marking the return of the “Golden Boy”.
From heaven’s high vault does this great man descend
With terrestrial soil marking the end
Of his journey: What began in the stars
Ends on a rock between Venus and Mars.
Massed at his feet upon his arrival
Are those who’ve long prayed for his revival;
When, in the cosmos, balance would renew
And lustrous sights would bedazzle their view;
When, in affection, the lion and lamb
Would frolic together and share a dram
Of sweet honey—the preferred drink of friends!
(O’er which even beasts can make their amends).
Henceforth, they’d relish perpetual peace,
A calm dominion of joy without cease;
A land of sweet pleasure, boundless and pure:
Could a Utopian ask for much more?
And who is this god for whom they all wait?—
To whom they genuflect and supplicate?
For the sight of whose smile, o’er coals they’d crawl
To whose winning charm, they’re wholly enthralled?
Can you guess? No?—I’ll give you a few hints:
In the Oval Office, he served two stints.
To Michelle wed, by Ann Dunham mothered
(By whom he was raised, though much less colored;
Between black and white, he more darkly stood—
Two rich hemispheres combined in his blood).
The pride of Hawaii, her hybrid son
Of Harvard’s Law School, an esteemed alum.
No guesses still? You’ll not dare take a crack?
The king from on high is none but Barack.
I speak of Obama—not Christ, you fool!
(Who wielded a hammer and rode a mule).
Barack wields more power, or so it would seem
And rides on a name that just might redeem
His successor. Of Joe Biden, ‘Tis said,
His future is bleak, his agenda, dead.
Unhelped is he by the limp hand of luck
Without which he’s drowned, like a frail lame duck.
Alas! Underwater Biden remains
With plummeting polls all circling the drains.
What better time, then, than now to recall
Barack—by whom Joe’s collapse might be stalled?
Into the White House he recently stepped
Up to whose dais, he naturally leapt.
(Is there a man better fit for the stage?—
Whose youthfulness ill contrasts with Joe’s age;
Whose handsome presence and eloquent voice
Make him, not Biden, the preferable choice?)
There to promote his namesake healthcare act,
He stole the whole show with effortless tact;
Referring to Joe as his underling,
As dross measured against a pound sterling,
Obama insulted the man. But, Phew!
If only Biden were conscious and knew
That he’s become little more than a joke,
A stale simpleton at whom all can poke;
Of whom all can make light, mockery, and fun
Whose mind is mush, and whose race is now run.
After the speech, Biden aimlessly walked,
Lost ‘midst a group that excitedly talked
Of big issues—And how could they be small?
Kamala Harris was there, after all!
The vast breadth of her genius, none can gauge
Like a fat man’s hunger none can assuage…
Oh stop! Off I go again to digress
On the profound talent of Miss Harris.
As for Joe, like a lost boy he ambled
And worse! Like an old drunkard he rambled
About god knows what! The letter-less truant
(Sense is a language in which he’s un-fluent!)
Obama’s attention he sought in vain
Tapping his shoulder again and again;
Like a querulous child, needing a nap
He continued to whine and tap, tap, tap.
But Barack’s shoulder was ever so cold
To the free world’s leader, who’s e’er so old.
Never has a colleague been so aloof,
Nor a president such a graceless goof.
In short: the entire scene was a pity
(A sad note on which to end my ditty).
We’ve long passed the point of embarrassment,
The days of campaigning from his basement;
The time when he was sniffing young girls’ hair
(Regardless of whether her mom was there);
The time when Hunter, his dissolute son
Tossed in a schoolyard an illegal gun
And then used his name with regimes to trade
By which the “Big Guy’s” been handsomely paid;
When he introduced to poor Tara Reade
Promiscuous fingers hungry to feed
On southern meals. Oy! Is this not too much?—
For the gentle caress of a poet’s touch?
I fear that my pen’s out-written itself
And my rhymes should return back to their shelf.
But before they do, allow me to say:
Enjoy your Easter, this coming Sunday!