Jon Stewart Has No Clothes

Wan Jon Stewart Has No Clothes

Dogma-peddling, oh-so-hip progressive party-liner;

Light-weight comic thinker -- metastasized to beltway sage;

Pied-piping leader of the herd of independent minds --

Wan Jon Stewart smirks and Daily struts upon his cable stage

Self-righteous non-questioner of half-assed, half-baked views;

Self-aggrandizing clown -- epitomizing smug;

Quick to lambaste Cramer for selling shots of snake oil --

Wan Jon sells his snake oil -- by the gallon jug.

Piñata-smashing brickbat -- party stooge;

Master of the cherry-picked cheap shot;

Wallowing (and reveling) in self-congratulating glee --

Wan Jon doesn’t give whole truth one sixteenth of a thought.

Alas -- Now that Wan Jon’s cardboard Savior -- narcissistic Mr. O

Hath risen – and upon his tooth-chocked face doth regularly fall,

Wan Jon rushes forth to hedge his bets and tell the world that “No --

Hell no! Why – I’m not an ideologue at all!”

Of course he knows full well that’s horse manure.

Horse manure that non-stop plops from the palomino steed

He’s named “Agenda”. He rides into our video-lit homes

To the spread the fertilizer of the Left’s pipe-dreaming creed.

Political correctness – therein lies his boundless, groundless confidence.

And in those PC tar pits Wan Jon sinks – over his head,

And that overwhelming blackness frees his grand imagination

To gaze upon gross folly -- and see wisdom there instead.

In fact -- this pip squeak emperor’s dressed in oft-recycled brand new clothes

That any fool could see right through – but fools don’t care to look.

They much prefer to have their bias reinforced by japes and jibes

And swallow whole this joker’s bait – sinker, line, and hook.