do not go gentle

Poor Dick. I've been seeing Dick all over the television lately. Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick--to quote Quentin Tarantino.

And as The Cheney Family Torture Tour '09 continues to drag on, it's starting to get that tired feel to it, like a Whitesnake reunion tour on its second Midwestern swing.

He's starting to seem desperate, and I began to feel sorry for him. He just seems so sad, feeling the impending hammer of justice about to crush his skull.

So I wrote him a poem.


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Light
or
Requiem For a Dick (Cheney)

By Kurt Brighton
(with apologies to Dylan Thomas and anyone who loves actual poetry)

Do not go gentle into that good light,
Old age should burn and rave at bright new day;
Rage, rage against exposure in the light.

Though false men to the end think might makes right,
Because their tongues were forked, unenlighten’d they
Do not go gentle into that good light.

Cruel men, ‘Go fuck yourself;’ my, how very trite
Their vile, dark deeds have danced in Gitmo Bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the night.

Wild men who drank and shot a friend in spite,
Don’t learn, just lie, deceive to clear the way,
Do not go gentle into that good light.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Indictments could blaze like meteors one day,
Rage, rage against exposure in the light.

And you, of penguin’d mien and turtled spine
Curse, bless us now with fierce falsehoods you say.
Oh, just go gentle into that good light.
Rage though you will ‘gainst the dying of the night.


(original follows)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
###