The Outlook wasn't brilliant for demonrats that day:
The score stood tied, with just one inning more to play.
And then when Biden died at first, and Pelosi did the same,
Bob Bechtel did the same, and a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the liberals' breast;
They thought, if only blammo could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with blammo at the bat.
But take a Flier preceded blammo, as did also Jay Carney,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a *****;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of blammo getting to the bat.
But Flier let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Biden, the much despised, tore the secret shroud off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Flier at second and Biden a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through Mt. Rushmore, it rattled way down in Hell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For blammo, effeminate blammo, was squatting to pee at the bat.
There was ease in blammo's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in blammo's bearing and a sneer on blammo's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas blammo at the bat.
He laid down his driver and picked up a bat.
He yelled "Fore" and pointed to Allah.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his basketball shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in blammo's eye, a sneer curled blammo's lip.
And now the soft ball sphere came hurtling through the air,
And blammo stood a-watching it in haughty, useless splendor there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -
"That ain't my style," said blammo. "Strike one," Romney said.
From the benches, full of terrorists, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill Romney!" shouted a muzzie al-Qaeda Imen on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not blammo raised his hand.
With a fake smile of Muzzie charity great blammo's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But blammo still ignored it, and Romney said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and rioting answered fraud;
But one scornful look from blammo’s lawyers and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his jaw muscle tense,
And they knew that blammo wouldn't let that ball go through the fence.
The sneer is gone from blammo's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of blammo's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
There is vast joy in America – wimpy blammo has struck out.