Nixon had a running mate named Spiro.
Their combined integrity was zero.
Nixon was a paranoid and liar.
Agnew was a goon and vilifier.
Both fled office to avoid a trial,
leaving legacies most dark and vile.
Those who do remember them at all
felt some vindication in their fall.
Most of all, I’d like to thank, the big three, Dylan, Bruce and Hank,
Elvis, Van and Jerry Lee, Cash, the Clash and GBV,
Cohen, Bowie, Brubeck, Cream, Nine Inch Nails and Marley’s dream,
Neil Young and his Crazy Horse, Rolling Stones, Beatles, of course,
Richard Thompson, Bobby Bare, soundtracks, "Oliver" and "Hair,"
Miles, ‘Trane, Mingus and the Bird, all the Wainwrights, first to third,
Airplane, Moby Grape and Dead, David Byrne, the Talking Head,
k.d., Bonnie, Emmy Lou, Kurt Cobain and Fighters Foo,
Willie, Billie, Mel Torme, Spoonful, Eleventh Dream Day,
Warren Zevon, White Stripes, Who, Traffic, Waits and Gil Scott, too,
Stevies: Wonder, Ray and Nicks, Louis Armstrong, Monk and Bix,
Hendrix, Marvin, Patsy Cline, Youngbloods, Taj Mahal, John Prine,
Muddy, Fats and Jelly Roll, Kinks, Paul Butterfield and Hole,
Janis, Woody, Arlo, Pete, Nick Cave on his Mercy Seat,
Led Zep, Creedence and the Jam, Canned Heat, Tom Rush, Sam the Sham,
Smithers, Withers, Townes Van Zandt, Frank Sinatra, Gogi Grant,
Holly, DEVO and Chuck Berry, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, Sonny Terry,
Keb’ Mo’, Shins and Arcade Fire, Simon, Beach Boys, Beck and Wire,
The Band, The The, Sonic Youth, Decemberists, Spooky Tooth,
REM, Cramps, Modest Mouse, Sam Cooke, Bauhaus, Crowded House,
Aretha and Nat King Cole, all the troubadours of soul,
Joni, Joan and all the folks, on the big wheel, they’re the spokes,
blues, rock punk, ska and new wave, music I’ll take to my grave.
Remember the time when our waters were fine,
when the rivers weren’t cloudy all day?
When the fish used to swim in the fresh or the brine,
before chemicals came into play.
But now plastic and oil have consorted to spoil
our great waterways, oceans and lakes.
Stop this madness, and soon, or just say, "Goodnight Moon."
Please do it for your grandchildren’s sakes.
Ten years ago today, my heart went on a short vacation.
It called me in my dream state from a pay phone at a station.
"I’m sitting just outside your chest. It’s really quite a view.
Don’t worry, get yourself some rest, I’ll be back in a few.
Amazing how the world looks when you’re not cooped up in ribs.
I seem to be surrounded by a bunch of guys in bibs.
I think I’ll have a little work to ease my miseries.
I’ll have a valve job and perhaps get four new arteries.
I should be home before it’s dark, so please don’t pass away.
And when I’m back, please promise me, do as the doctors say."
A decade since my chest was opened and I’m doing fine.
I’d like to thank my bypass team. My heart is yours, not mine.
A couple days ago, I miscarried.
Just a little blob covered in red.
Now they tell me it’s got to be buried.
Bad enough my zygote child is dead.
Fetus funerals are the law in Texas.
Strange new rules now suddenly abound.
Bring it to the graveyard in a Lexus.
Throw it with some flowers in the ground.
Priest will eulogize our little Cletis.
They suggested that it have a name.
We just made a guess it’s a boy fetus.
This whole system seems a bit insane.
Plan is when the ceremony ends,
we’ll go out to breakfast with some friends.
And, as this crazed situation begs,
we’ll all order sunny side up eggs.