False prophet, or the ballad of Dubya

he's pretty as a bulldog in the early morning spring,
with a voice just like a tomcat when he uses it to sing,
he's as handsome as a lizard in the warm and pleasant sun
with a smile just like a preacher if someone pulls a gun,
he's a king without a kingdom, his castle's made of hay
he tore it down last weekend and built it back today,
he sits upon his fancy throne and rules with regal grace
and wonders if another prince will ever take his place,
he stumbles on the growing grass and tears his jaunty threads,
he's a walking psychotherapist or a tire that's bald, sans treads,
he's a poem undertaker, he reads them with a laugh
he's a millionaire collector,a faded photograph.

2008