New Yawp, New Yawp
God is everywhere, I know,
but Michael Bloomberg,
the mayor of New York,
is catching up.
He's on TV incessantly,
telling folks about his
new commandments:
Thou Shalt Not Buy Big Sodas.
Thou Shalt Not Buy Big Guns.
He disturbs my neighbor Roscoe,
whose bib overalls encase
a perfect pumpkin paunch.
He likes a wash of Mountain Dew
after double shots of gin
and keeps a howitzer under his bed
in case some nincompoop some night
comes to steal his llamas or his wife.
"Llamas cost big money," Roscoe says.
"but I can find another wife."
Unlike God, whom I have yet to see,
Michael Bloomberg has a face
reminiscent of the four on Rushmore.
I want to yell at him but can't because
the man sounds almost right.
I had nuns in grammar school like him
but they smiled once or twice.
God loves all men, I know,
but I'm afraid the Lord might ask
the mayor of New York to take
the microphone some day
and firmly announce
the End of the World.
At any given moment
Michael Bloomberg is
the best man in America
to handle that assignment.
He was born to separate
sheep from goats.