Red Room Where the Writers Are

by Adrianne Aron

September 23, 2009, 5:44 pm

For this week's theme of Saying Good-bye, two little contributions.  One was sung this morning, 9/23/2009, at the Federal Courthouse, where the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals was hearing a case having to do with sexual abuse.  On the bench of the 9th Circuit sits Jay Bybee, who authorized, in the infamous Torture Memos, abominable acts of physical and sexual abuse!  It's time to say good-bye to Bybee.  The second little farewell I sing in the shower.

BATTLE HIM

My eyes have seen the beastliness

Of Bybee on the bench,

He has trampled on our treaties

And has thrown an ugly wrench

At the constitution’s body

And our many signed accords;  

We must get him off the bench and

Must repudiate his words.  

Where’s Geneva?  Where’s the Bill of Rights,

And where’s the rule of law?

Bybee flushed them down the toilet

With his twisted torture paw.

Good Republicans and Democrats

On this see eye to eye:

A return to law and order,

And to Bybee a good-bye.

 

BUTT OUT, BUDDY

Pell Mell, putting on airs—Red jacket, cellophane tie.

Think you're a mighty buff, multi-puff guy.

But I knew you way back, as plain old Paul Maul;

Your one claim to fame was that you were tall. 

Chester Field, short as a shrimp—White shirt, brocades of gold.

Plenty of tar, and easy to hold.

But look at you now, a burned out old ash;

A crumpled white shirt, an old piece of trash. 

Newport, Salem: you're both cartoons—Filtered light, freshening taste.

Much to enjoy, little to waste.

But you guys, you're playing a cruelty joke:

You passed me a cough drop, I wanted a smoke! 

Monsieur Gaulois, I like that you're black—Tight vest, blue cravat.

Sexy French accent, tight like a cat.

You're strong and assertive, but oh, what a smell…

Offensive, disgusting—a stench straight from hell. 

Sherman, you black in black dude—Traveling round in a box.

Pricey and spicy, trim as a fox.

You're just for show, like carnival tricks,

Inside your box are those bad cancer sticks. 

American Spirit, give me a break—Organic and pesticide-free.

Think you can put that one over on me?

You've got a line, man, but I've heard it said

That all your ex-girlfriends are already dead. 

Bugler and Top, soft to the touch—Honest at least; that's nice.

Better in flavor, better in price,

But guys, let's get real: you're nobody's friend,

Cause all of your fans get hooked in the end. 

Hey, all of you guys: you, Chester; you, Paul:

You corporate scumbags, I spit on you all.

You tempt me, then grab me, then chain me, then grin,

While counting the profits that you're raking in. 

Well, listen here, fellas: I've crawled my last mile.

Tell Marlboro Man he can wipe off his smile.

Tell Camel to lump it, Tell Lucky I'm through,

I'd rather be single than married to you. 

I'm out of here, boys, I'm snuffing you out.

I'm kicking your butts and washing my mouth.

No rollies, no bummin, and no going back,

I'm done with you stinkers, I've bought my last pack.