Of all of america's excellent cities,
Mine is the one most conducive to ditties.
Which is strange, since D.C. (almost all of the time)
Is lacking not only in reason, but rhyme.
When Justice O'Connor said she'd step down,
That the tough job had started to stress her,
A frenzy of jousting fell over this town
Over who would be named her successor.
The left wanted anyone left of far right,
And the right sought Attila the
The hawks favored backers of
NRA dug a guy with a gun.
The greens sought a friend of
both bunny and bear,
The church wanted fetal
The wrinklies, a person to
The prez, one immune to
Gals wanted a gal to replace the last
Hispanics sought parity, fast.
Blacks wanted a guy who's more of a pal
Than the black who was sent up there last.
Jews wanted a Jew, Danes wanted a Dane,
And Muslims, one of their own.
There were immigrant lobbies for natives of Spain,
Morocco and Sierra Leone.
All sides went all out to get in their shout,
Taking stances from which they'd not budge.
The only thing no one was talking about
Was who would have been the best judge.
The capital's blessed with a new, two-part miracle,
Though the proof that we have is mostly empirical:
For once -- and at last -- we've a good baseball club,
Plus, the feckless zoo pandas created a cub.
Coincidence? Maybe. Perhaps it's not fated --
The joyful events might well not be related.
But in this hot cauldron of strife and dissension,
It sure seems to signal Divine Intervention.
Miracles happen, they say, by the threes,
So I'm awaiting a third, down on my knees:
A '08 candidate who (dare we hope?)
Isn't a jackass, a dork or a dope.
The city's aflame
About whom to blame
Over leaking the name
Of one Valerie Plame
It's a little arcane
But I'll try to explain
And put into your brain
The whole complex chain
See, Val was a spook
And by some crazy fluke
Saddam had no nuke
Which brought a rebuke
From Valerie's mate
Which started a spate
Of spite and of hate
That just won't abate
Rove's name has been bared
And sources were shared
And near-war was declared
. . . Um, if anyone cared.
Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats!
Millions and billions and trillions of cats!
Cats in the rafters, cats on the bed!
Cats who are living and cats who are dead!
This is the tale of the gal from Mount Vernon
Whose house had the neighbors' poor stomachs a-turnin'
With odors that proved to be coming from cats
In numbers erasing all previous stats.
Like George of Mount Vernon, the lady won't lie,
"I got overwhelmed," she said, starting to cry.
She began with the best of intentions, she said --
But screwed up that business of planning ahead.
I'm addressing myself to a different George now,
Since this offers a lesson you're missing, somehow:
When the fur is a-flying 'cause you've called a bad game,
The least you can do is to shoulder the blame.
Gene Weingarten's e-mail address is firstname.lastname@example.org. Chat with him online Tuesdays at noon at www.washingtonpost.com.