Tim Clare For Regent

Googling myself recently, I discovered I had a namesake - a Republican chappie called Tim Clare, running for Regent of Nebraska University. His campaign slogan was: 'The Choice Is Clear - The Choice Is Clare'. I felt I ought to support him somehow, so without any money to add to his campaign coffers, I wrote him a poem...

As prophesied, the Last Days came
The mountains fell, the oceans boiled
Great nations drowned in lakes of flame
Men screamed for God or cursed His name
And underpants were soiled
Flesh crunched with scabs, hair crawled with lice
It was, in truth, not very nice;
Yet – humankind survived somewise
In hidden coves and caves of ice
That echoed with their cries.

They cried like this:

‘Who will lead us from our sorrow?
Who will harken to our prayer?
Who will forge a brave tomorrow,
Scourge the Devil in his lair?’
They seek him here, they seek him there
The choice is clear – the choice is Clare

His ears are firm, his chin is brave,
His breasts are muscular and wise
He uses broken glass to shave
He eats our firstborn sons in pies

And when it’s time to phone a friend
On whose crisp voice can we depend?
Who wants to be a millionaire?
The choice is clear – the choice is Clare.

Whose riches rival dead King Tut’s?
Who slugged a tiger in the guts?
Who kicked the Kaiser in the nuts?
Who turns coy mistresses to sluts?

What is this life, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare
While one man calmly fucks a bear?
The choice is clear – the choice is Clare.

The choice is clear – the choice is Clare.
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes! His floating hair!
His gaping hirsute derriere!

When first he sang, the angels wept
He laughs – ah ha ha ha! – at fools
He’s welcomed everywhere, except
Within one hundred yards of schools

For he on honeydew hath fed
His arse a runny poo hath bled
As if the eye of God had shed
A single, pungent Bovril tear
O close your eyes with holy dread!
As from his pale and pimpled rear
It dangles by a russet thread
Between his bum-juice dappled thighs
With hints of ochre, mauve and red
The chocolate milk of paradise

Such craftmanshit! Such fartistry!
He defecates with rare aplomb
A standard stool’s a travesty
Against his mighty bum croissant

As on and on his minions march,
His pinions arch, his nostrils flare,
He strops his talons on a throne
Of tattered skin and blackened bone
Within his citadel of stone
And passing countless hours alone
While tortured traitors writhe and groan
While foes to foaming hounds are thrown
He ponders all his wrath hath sown
How seeds of agony have grown
To weeds the Reaper’s scythe hath mown
The deeds for which none can atone
The bloodied virgin lying prone
The toothless, blind, abyssal crone
The goatchild playing the trombone
And blasting from that golden cone
One last apocalyptic tone –

He whinnies like a harpooned mule
Then slumps back in his blighted chair
The voices, fear, and poisoned air
The choice is clear – the choice is Clare