Mike Tidmus

As arm-chair pundits and angry political bloggers dissect last night’s debate, let’s not forget that it’s a beautiful autumn day and just right for a mix of America’s favorite pastimes.

Palin at the bat

By Mike Tidmus

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Republicans that night;

After Couric, she had one chance to try and set things right.
Her detractors, there were many, had come to see her fall,
But Palin raised her perky head, her eye upon the ball.

Her likeness, in the green room mirror, brought Tina Fey to mind:
Those Hollywood and New York types could be so darned unkind.
In stylish heels, she paced the room — a pit bull in a cage.
She did her best to calm herself before she took the stage.

She wondered what would Jesus do if He were in her place.
She knew, if things were turned about, He’d surely find the grace
To face those evil nay-sayers of every creed and hue.
She knew down deep within her heart, He’d know just what to do.

That Sarah was a loving soul, her pastors could attest:
She loved the Lord with all her heart with courage and with zest,
But she bore no love for liberals, nor coastal-based elites —
Those latte-sucking vampire-types who filled the pricey seats.

The press elites were bad enough, but bloggers were plain rude.
Those evil, left-wing monsters wrote the book on being crude.
They twisted her positions, swore she lacked all common sense,
Knew naught of foreign policy, still less about defense.

“So my passport’s new, and I’ve not yet summered in Provence;
I know more than a thing or two of treaties and détentes.
Right outside my kitchen window, I have seen that Putin scheme
Wicked machinations to spoil the American Dream.

Sarah knew what she believed, and, for sure, God got it right;
The contrast between good and bad was not a thing to slight.
In days of yore, men and dinosaurs walked upon this land;
That this belonged in science books was part of her God’s plan.

Evil witches lurk in darkness; pastors must shout them out —
Conversing in tongues is normal and works without a doubt.
By moonlight, witches dance around without a single stitch,
But thanks to Pastor Muthee, tonight Sarah was de-witched.

For Joe Six-Pack Americans, she vowed to do her best
To rip that ball out of the park, and henceforth lay to rest
The thoughts of tiny, little minds that Sarah wasn’t fit
To join with soul mate John McCain and have a go at it.

In the restless crowd sat Trig and Todd, Will and Piper too.
Levi and Bristol, at their side, filled up the family pew.
They all had faith in Sarah; they knew she’d do her best —
Like a hope that springs eternal, within the human breast.

From Anchorage down to Mudville, and all across the land,
In sports bars, homes and coffee shops, to watch her take her stand,
Every TV set was tuned in to catch the great debate,
As Sarah bore her mighty bat and stepped up to the plate.

Then Gwen Ifill took the stage; she and Biden did the same.

Fail now and John McCain would fall, and Palin bear the blame.
She strode across that carpet, the Maverick on her mind,
And vowed her faith and perkiness would never be maligned.

The first question whizzed right by her, but clean above the plate.
She held her bat defiantly, her faith did not abate.
“Dear Lord,” said she in silent prayer, “Please open up my brain;
We practiced that one yesterday — the question was the same.”

Then Biden spoke of foreign threats with confidence and verve,
Of bailouts, crooks and Wall Street, and threats to the Reserve.
He spoke in complete sentences, comprised of verbs and nouns.
He knew each issues’ ins and outs and, too, their ups and downs.

She glared at Mr Biden — he was no DiMaggio.
She shook it off, regained her cool, then she was good to go.
The NASCAR dads and Wal-Mart moms, grew anxious in their seats,
Like Sarah, they were mindful of Liberal Joes’s deceits.

With the grace of Christian charity, Palin’s visage shone.
Sarah hushed the rising clamor, and bade the game move on.

She signaled to Gwen Ifill, and once more that spheroid flew;

But Palin just ignored it, and Gwen Ifill yelled, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the loyal Republicans, and echo answered fraud;

With a scornful glance from Sarah’s eye, the audience was awed.
They watched her visage tighten, they saw her muscles strain,

They knew that Sarah wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The lipstick’s worn from Palin’s lips, her teeth now clenched in rage;

Sarah taps her bat upon the plate, eager to engage.
Biden, with a smirky smirk, smugly lets a zinger go,

Then the air was shattered by Sarah Palin’s mighty blow.

Oh, somewhere in Alaska the midnight sun burns bright;
The Jonas Brothers fill the air to hockey moms’ delight.

Somewhere a witch is laughing, as Palin’s pastors shout;

But there’s no joy in Wasilla — Mrs Palin has struck out.

+++++

Ernest Thayer’s Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sun in the Year 1888 was first published in the San Francisco Examiner on 3 June 1888. It’s been parodied many, many times. As a testament to the poem’s popularity, it can even be read on the internets in French.