And now the pro-defense public came hurtling through the air,
And Howard stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the crowd unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Howard. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches stuffed with Franken fans, there rose a muffled roar,
Like cries of "No more war for oil" from Washington press corps.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted peaceniks on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Howard raised his hand.
With a smile of metrosexuality Howard's visage shone;
He redid his Revlon makeup and then bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and the pro-marriage crowd flew;
But Howard still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Howard and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his forehead strain,
And they knew that Howard couldn't let that crowd go by again.
The sneer is gone from Howard's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now that cowboy holds the crowd, and now Bush lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Howard's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this leftist land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and in Europe hearts are light,
And somewhere gays are laughing, and somewhere appeasers shout;
But there is no joy in Leftville -- mighty Howard has struck out.