When I behold the candidates now prime,
And sable curls not silvered o'er with white:
Then I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night.
With comb’d over yon forehead slight of brow
A berth in harbor Africa doth seek
But Palin compar’son his Trump’d suit now
Whist hand abandons knave of heart so meek
As there be those wouldst like Hucka be gone
Ere eye of Newt wouldst quitst the lackey throng
To salamander under swamp-ed stone
Methinks ‘tis Mitt of Romney stands alone
Whilst Bachmann, with her slings and arrows sounds
Wouldst stir tea beggars prehistoric views
Yon Huntsman sallies without arms or hounds
Pawlenty yet may prime merry 'gainst few
High on the field the Mighty Moor doth jest
As ponders he his foes with poles depressed.
To the online begetter of
This blogged bloated sonnet
Mr. B H. O’Bamah all happiness.