By Calvin Trillin
In his most recent laugh-out-loud publication of political verse, Calvin Trillin offers a riotous depiction of the 2012 presidential election campaign.
Dogfight is a story poem interrupted on a regular basis through different poems and infrequently via what the writer calls a pause for prose ("Callista Gingrich, acutely aware That Her Husband Has Cheated On after which Left other halves Who Had critical health problems, attempts Desperately to Make mild of a foul Cough"). With an identical barbed wit he displayed within the bestsellers figuring out the following Decider, Obliviously On He Sails, and A Heckuva task, America's closing date poet trains his attractions at the Tea occasion ("These parents have been fast to vocally condemn/All handouts however the ones that went to them") and the slapstick box of contenders for the Republican nomination ("Though first-tier applicants have been in general out,/Republicans have been asking, "What about/The moment tier or what in regards to the third?/Has not anything from these different degrees been heard?"). there's an ode to Michele Bachmann, sung to the music of a Beatles vintage ("Michele, our belle/Thinks that gays will all be despatched to hell") and passages at the go out of applicants like Herman Cain ("Although his patter in debates may possibly tickle,/Cain's pool of data appeared much less pool than trickle") and Rick Santorum ("The race will leave out the purity/That you by myself endow./We'll by no means locate one other man/Who's holier than thou.")
On its strategy to the November 6 finale, Trillin's narrative takes us via such highlights because the January caucuses in frigid Iowa ("To take heed to lengthy speeches is your duty,/And getting there may well freeze off your patootie"), the Republican conference ("It appeared like Clint, his chair, and their vignette/Had wandered in from a few adjacent set"), and Mitt Romney's secretly recorded "47 percent" speech, which impressed the "I received the Mitt Thinks I'm a Moocher, a Taker no longer a Maker, Blues."
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Extra resources for Dogfight: The 2012 Presidential Campaign in Verse
Johnny didn't hedge. V. and offered beer which Johnny refused, Johnny said, "I've just talked with Mr. Joe. " Bernie stared at him. " Johnny repeated what he had said. "You really mean that . . " Bernie drew in a long, deep breath and his heavy, fat face lit up with a broad grin. Suddenly, he looked ten years younger. " He clapped his hands together. "I've been praying for this for years! " "I guessed you would feel that way," Johnny said. "That's why I came right over. What'll you do, Bernie?
Not a thing, Mr. Johnny. Not much doing on Saturday . . " Johnny had forgotten it was Saturday. Tomorrow would be Sunday. He hated Sundays with the shops shut and people going out of town. Usually he spent Sunday mornings reading the papers and then joining Melanie in the late afternoon. Sunday morning she was always busy, cleaning her apartment, washing her hair and doing all the goddamn chores women seem to find to do. " Johnny asked. " Sammy looked uneasily at Johnny. The hard expression on Johnny's face bothered him.
Together, they had pulled a number of jobs, mostly gas stations until the police caught up with them. Johnny did a twoyear stretch and that decided his fate. He came out of prison, educated in crime and sure that next time he wouldn't be caught. For a couple of years he worked solo as a stick-up man. The money hadn't amounted to anything but he was always hoping for something big. Then he ran into Ciano again who was now working for Joe Massino, an up and coming gangleader. Ciano took him along and Massino looked him over.