by Karen Greenbaum-Maya
Glenn Beck would burn his cards to please her,
leaks real tears each time he sees her.
You’d think she’d brought the Holy Grail in,
the way they roar for Sarah Palin.
If her lipstick sent a message,
we all know what it would presage.
Sarah says she’s called by God,
and no one even finds it odd.
She named her kids Track, Trig and Bristol.
For peace of mind, she shoots a pistol.
She doesn’t finish what she starts
(in Sarah’s case, this breaks no hearts).
A country gal who rakes the cash in
(don’t say someone brought the trash in),
there is no lie too mean or low
if Sarah gets her pot of dough.
Look out—she’s seizing on some word
that didn’t mean quite what she heard.
She took offense, she bellowed “Foul!”
Today, those words are what she’ll howl.
She goes for those designer suits
that show off boobs and hard-worked glutes.
She runs to trim her thighs and hips:
she’s cheerleader for the Apocalypse.
She’s gleeful when she causes sorrow;
she talks like there’ll be no tomorrow.
But teeth will gnash, and there’ll be wailin’,
if we get stuck with President Palin.
Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a clinical psychologist in Claremont, California. She came of age politically when she was 12, and her mother compelled her to make phone calls for Barry Goldwater. Karen complied, but added her own voice, namely, that her mother had signed up for the job, and that if she didn’t care enough about the candidate to do it herself, they probably shouldn’t vote for him. Her mother still doesn’t know about this. In an earlier life, she was a German Lit major so that she could read poetry for credit. Her poems have appeared recently in: The Dirty Napkin, Off the Coast, Umbrella, qarrtsiluni, Poemeleon, Lilliput Review, and Abyss & Apex. Others are forthcoming in Sow’s Ear Poetry Review. She was nominated for the 2010 Pushcart Prize.
_____________________________________________________
