Post-op advice for Bill Clinton

When you’re pooped, uptight and frazzled
and your plagued by anxiousness,
there’s a simple diagnosis.
You are suffering from stress.

You are taxed by unmet deadlines.
You are driven by demands.
You’re a mess of frayed emotions
like some stretch-out rubber bands.

It’s a low-grade chronic sickness
that will leave you nearly dead,
if you don’t address the symptoms.
First of all, go straight to bed.

When you wake up, eat your breakfast.
Spend some time with God in prayer.
Let the Lord review your date book.
Offer up your angst and cares.

Take a walk or jog three miles.
Don’t neglect your exercise.
Watch your diet. Drink much water.
Boycott burgers, Cokes and fries.

Make the most of meals with family.
Share your feelings. Make amends.
View each day as priceless treasure.
Count your blessings. Laugh with friends.

Learn the art of saying “Sorry!
While I’d love to I just can’t.”
Try to just say no more often.
Let it be your freedom chant.

Guard your day-off like a soldier
wearing sneakers, jeans and cap.
Let yourself enjoy a hobby.
Every Sunday take a nap.

Even though it’s not a cancer,
stress can kill you just the same.
So determine you will fight it.
Make a stress-free life your aim.

Demythologizing the Democratic Dream Team

In old bean town
they made their rounds
while leaning to the left.
Those White House bound
can brown-nose well
appearing almost deft.

Both John and John
will carry on
Edwardian in looks.
Their only theme
is bashing Bush
and painting George a crook.

And did you hear?
They made it clear.
At last they’re for the war.
At least for now
that is their tact.
But change may be in store.

And if it comes,
I won’t be stunned.
Their first-this now-that ways
are well rehearsed.
They change their minds
unflinching and unfazed. 

Where does ‘My Life’ intersect real life?

It’s rather odd, don’t you agree,
that YOU should write your legacy?

That’s what historians compose
long after men have decomposed.

In “My Life” you attempt to say
that what you did was quite okay.

But was it all above reproach?
Did you let conscience be your coach?

You played around because you could
and stained the office where Abe stood.

You’ve blasted Mr. Kenneth Starr,
but Mr. Bill you know you are
a self-deceiving snow-haired flake
who won’t admit a gross mistake.

You glamorized your White House years
although they left your wife in tears.

You think yourself a superman
who feels undressed without a tan.

But underneath that burnished skin
has not your character worn thin?

Do you think that though impeached
you regained trust that had been breached.

Is fiction what you love to write?
If so, you’re good and very bright.