CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

Jacques Chiraq	French leader
Gerhard Schroeder	German leader
Dominique de Villepin	French Representative to the U.N.
Kofi Annan	U.N. Secretary General
Hans Blix	U.N. weapons inspector
George Bush	U.S. President
Tony Blair	British Prime Minister, A.K.A. “The English dude”
Colin Powell	U.S. Secretary of State
Puti Pute	Russian leader, Vladamir Putin, nicknamed Puti Pute by Bush
Saddam Hussein	Former Iraqi leader
Bin Laden	Al Quaeda leader, terrorist
Al-Zarahiri	Bin Laden’s right hand terrorist
Mohammed	Robot

Al-Jazzeira is an Arab television/satellite station that broadcasts a lot of terrorist propaganda.


THE MAD TEAPARTY

Mouths that mother
and hands that milk
the bony breasts of Baghdad,
Jacques and Gerhard
on their pots of oil
squat in the dark
and plot to stop the maverick,
for he’s cutting off all their loot.

With plan in hand,
the worms wriggle in
and slither onto their stools
while Kofi addresses the democracy
of despots, dictators, and fools
as they gather for their annual tea.

“Tyrants unite!” Kofi begins,
“Let’s restrain the buckaroo,
for HUNDREDS might die to save MILLIONS
of the Butcher’s tortured minions.”

DeVillepin slinks around the room
and pours the tyrants’ tea,
while Hans declares his doctrine
of Saddam’s WMD:
“Although they were there,
he claims they’re now gone
but he won’t say just where,
and he won’t let us look except where they’re not
for what is no more,
so inspections must go on…
and on…”

In thunders George, Mr. Go-It-Alone,
and rattles the cups of tea.
His blazing white stallion of righteousness
makes the black and the gray to flee.
Says he, “You take his head,
or we’ll gun him down instead.”
either you’re our fan
or Saddam’s your man.”

Now that English dude,
he takes to the saddle.
He’s a Lone Ranger at heart.
He vows at once most courageously
to take a major part,
for “It’s the right thing to do.”

The ballots are passed,
the votes come in,
and silence rules each breath.
DeVillepin reads the verdict:
“We must off his head!”

George grins and Tony beams--
Such unexpected joy!
But Jacques grimaces darkly
with vitriolic glee.
“The Butcher’s head, you cowpokes,
pleases us not at all;
we’d love to see your own heads
adorn this meeting hall.”

While Jacques screams fiendishly,
“Off with their heads!”
Puti Pute and the Arabs
chase the cowboys round the teapots.
George gallops up the stairs
then leaps off the balcony.
He grabs the chandelier, and, swinging,
kicks Frenchie mightily.
Now Tony races round the room
his mustang, wild and golden.
The Brit who’s found his element cries,
“Hi Oh, Palomino!”

Faithful Colin, standing by,
opens the chamber doors,
and rounds up all the trusty steeds,
for the posse of willing.
“One for the Aussie, one for Bulgaria,
Poland, here’s one for you.
Spain, you take the thoroughbred.
Italy, this bay should do.”
George calls his palomilla
and dropping from on high,
he leads the posse out the doors,
to make their getaway.
George’s voice, trailing him,
comes through plain and true:
“I played my cards and this I found--
a pack of frauds are you.”

Back they come to their cups
and silently sip their tea,
scowling and pouting and wondering
what the next step ought to be.
Then a sudden blast severs their heads,
and their body parts are flying.
Jacques’s head catches in the chandelier.
His smirk is wiped off clean.
His eyes roll round and round and then
his head falls down to find its seat
and crown the mound of tyrant meat.
King of the hill at last!

Meanwhile in Baghdad
in an underground palace
an orgy is underway.
Saddam rewards his toadies
for their lies and treachery.
Five infants each he gives to those
who serve him loyally.
They torture and rape and finally kill
each pitiful newborn tot
who never knew and never grew
to understand their lot.
While all the thugs are glorying in
their sadistic ecstasy,
a big bomb busts their bunker,
a gift from ye olde yankee.

After Saddam is damned,
that long skinny rat
with hallowed eyes and beard and cane
crawls out of a cavern crack.
He gloats and cackles with his holy men
as they sit on their couches of rock.
Drinking cold tea they toast and boast,
and the United Noodles they mock..

“Too bad we missed George,”
raves Al-Zarahiri,
“but we got all his WMDs,
and we got all the nukes and the bombs
that that bad Muslim had up his sleeves.
They’re all tucked away
in the tunnels beneath us,
and Tony and George, God willing,
will get it with anthrax
and small pox and plague,
divine gift of Allah’s designing.”

As they revel and rant
and gulp down their tea,
a wee robot slips through a crevice
and sniffs out the scent and the DNA
of the masters and friends of terror.
His name is Mohammed,
back from the dead
to teach Bin Laden the truth
that killing all infidels was not the grand plan
that Allah had in his head.

Mohammed crawls under the table
on which the teapot is laid.
Between the hem of Bin’s robe and his footsies
he prepares for the plan Allah made.
He opens the flap on his knapsack
and pulls on a tiny gray chain.
And holy, moly, hullabalooahs!
that merry band of mullahs
erupts all over the meadows,
the poppy seeds and tulips!

Next day, on Al-Jazzeira,
a voice that is no more
chronicles the tea party massacre
of the once united noodles.
It proudly claims it did it,
the bombing and the killing,
and it’s last words are telling:
“God…was…willing!”

Copyright © 2003 Jean A. Hodgson.