Twas the day after gassing, when throughout the White House
No one’s courage was showing, not as big as a mouse;
The Nobel was hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a second soon would be there;
The Syrians were nestled all snug in their graves,
While the President dithered and ranted and raved.
And Kerry in a lather, Hagel a bind,
Both wondered if it were time to resign.
When from the West Wing there arose such a clatter,
That the President’s aides all had to scatter.
Away to the UN they flew like a flash,
Away to the Congress, permission to ask.
“A very red line has now been severed,
The Tomahawks now must be delivered!
Or maybe a letter, quite strongly worded!
The decision has me quite disconcerted.
Perhaps the line was just pinkish instead.
Perhaps all the outrage is just in my head?”
More rapid than eagles his soldiers they came,
And told him that helping al Qaeda was lame.
“Now! Hollande, now! Merkel, now! Cameron of Britain,
“On! Aussies, on! Kiwis, and help us to get him!
“To Damascus, Aleppo! To the Heights at Golan!
“A measured response must surely go on!”
As dry leaves that before the desert wind fly,
The allies’ response made the President sigh;
And then from New York, the United Nations,
“Attacking Assad is not really your station.”
So up to the media the handlers they flew,
With the speech full of threats — and some promises too:
And then in a lather, and then in a calm,
And then with a letter, and then with a bomb,
The President wavered, and then lost his calm.
From his enemy’s Facebook now again came,
A taunt! A taunt! And it gave him great pain!
Assad dressed all in glory, from head to his foot,
With Vladimir Putin very jealous to boot;
Launching shell after shell like a wolf on the flock,
While Assad laughed like a madman and fondled his cock:
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how manic,
His cheeks glowed like roses, as the President panicked;
Assad’s artillery, drawn up like a bow,
With faces of dead children, white as the snow;
The stump of one child he held tight in his teeth,
While the smoke encircled Syria just like a wreath.
And the President puzzled three hours or more,
Puzzled and puzzled ’til his puzzler was sore.
Then the CINC thought of something he hadn’t before!
“Maybe peace,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a bomb.”
“Maybe peace…perhaps…means responding with calm!”
And what happened then? Well … in the West Wing they say,
That the President’s testes shrank three sizes that day!
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