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

Hun,

The hawks favored backers of

nuclear might,

NRA dug a guy with a gun.

The greens sought a friend of

both bunny and bear,

The church wanted fetal

protection,

The wrinklies, a person to

help Medicare,

The prez, one immune to

rejection.

Gals wanted a gal to replace the last

gal,

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 weingarten@washpost.com. Chat with him online Tuesdays at noon at www.washingtonpost.com.