Elections Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Obama shakes her manicured
di-a-phoretic hand.
A hand that righlty has endured
a million handshakes, a n d
how many felt the vibes of flesh
so full of rank deception,
who saw the drapes of tricky mesh
a woman of subreption.

Obama, black and well-denied,
he drinks right from the bottle,
all wines are suited for this ride,
he will control the throttle.
Where wine goes in though, it does change,
to water it converts.
His re-assurances are strange,
his face? It really hurts.

That leaves McCain, the man who flies
off any handle gladly,
his women often wear black eyes,
that's when he treats them badly.
All three would relish the rebuke
they'd send to all the darkies,
Iran will have its genuine nuke,
the hell with words and sparkies.

What will you do, my Yankee friends?
Could we just vote for Yogi?
I cannot tell you how it ends,
might get that mean old foagy.