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Posted by Frank Tankard May 20, 2008 at 1:09 p.m.

I wonder if he used a fork.

![][1]What do you want in a pres-i-dent? Me, I want a poet. I voted for Rimbaud in the last election. So, who's the best poet in the race? I pasted below a couple poems that Barack Hussein Osama wrote in 1981 (found [here][2]). I can't wait to read JMac's stuff.POP Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; I'm sure he's unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass. I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but he's still telling His joke, so I ask why He's so unhappy, to which he replies... But I don't care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers. Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shrink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause I see my face, framed within Pop's black-framed glasses And know he's laughing too.UNDERGROUND Under water grottos, caverns Filled with apes That eat figs. Stepping on the figs That the apes Eat, they crunch. The apes howl, bare Their fangs, dance, Tumble in the Rushing water, Musty, wet pelts Glistening in the blue.ALSO, I found this sweet site called ["Poems about Presidents."][3] Here's one by Kasey:GEORGE WASHINGTON G. W. is his nickname. He was humble to his fame. I cross his bridge when I enter New York. I wonder if he used a fork. That was years ago when he was born. He was the calm after the storm. He was the first president in the U.S. What happened before him? Oh, what a mess!I wonder if he used a fork. Brilliant. It inspired me to write one:VARIATIONS ON THE FORK THEME I wonder if he used a fork. I wonder if he used a spoon. I wonder if he used a knife. I wonder if he used a broom.THE END. [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/r... [2]: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/us/politics/18poems.html?ex=1211774400&en=5590170dc7fd477d&ei=5070&emc=eta1 [3]: http://www.susq-town.org/byer/poetry%20pages/poems_about_presidents22.htm