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Home The Feuilleton of MilSan and MikWag How BP’s Anthony Hayward Flout wouldn’t get the oil out!

How BP’s Anthony Hayward Flout wouldn’t get the oil out!

BP’s Anthony Hayward Flout
Just wouldn’t get the oil out!
He scoured the news, and spiced up his charms,
Candied the web and folded his arms,
And though Obama did scream and shout,
Tony just would not get the oil out.
He was not very worried who’s kicking his ass
He knew that his business will whomever surpass.
He fattened his pockets with crude oil pounds
With a miser’s regard for the ominous sounds
Obama could not get Anthony fired,
His managers too have in failure conspired.

As crude gushed to the top:
Oiling birds, drop by drop,
Chunks of oil float atop.
Please swap it, get it to stop!

The ocean, it covers to the shore,
Cracking the reefs, life to deplore
With benzene rinds and oily stones,
Dripping thick drops from pelicones,
BP’s tackling the oil spill,
Looks in vain for magic pill. . .
Tony is lost beyond any doubt
He simply would not get the oil out
He takes his yacht Sunday and sails out,
“I want my life back,” he was able to shout.

Fish are gone and men of the sea
This future of theirs they no longer see.
They’re in despair, file a plea
Only to hear, “We’ll pay a fee.”
The shrimpers are angry, the oysters are dead,
But poisonous oil is still plenty to  spread
De’ crabs ‘dey all brown; ‘dey no longer red
Obama! Obama! Do something to help.
Obama was diddling, he thought and he prayed
His image in crude was starting to fade
His TV was on and disaster replayed
All screens seemed so muddy with oil cascade
He wishes he’d stop it with his Nobel’s head
But the statute was little and hard to embed
The well is disastrous, he finally said,
Hard is to find the savior’s thread.

He dialed the Congress, he called PhDs,
But his aids couldn’t dig for the proper IDs
Obama then dialed Wasilla
To find Sarah on her villa.

Drrrrrill! Drill!! rang her phone, Drrrrill! Drill!
--- Is this Bill? Is this pill? Or the Hill?
---Ms. Palin, I am calling about the spill
---Oh, Obama, c’mon, let us chill!

The poet Ms. Palin was having a party,
With pastry, with tea, she pretended as arty
But when she heard about crude
She certainly couldn’t get rude.

--So, Mr.Obama, what brings you to me?
I am having a moment of glee, can’t you see?
I just wrote a poem and published a book,
The people they love me, they hang on the hook.

--I’ve heard you’re an expert on oil
Please help me to clean all this spoil
I’m angry and I’m in despair
As of the DeepWater Affair.

--Oh, sure, Obama, now listen to me
I’ll offer my brilliant poem for free
My poem is utopia, you see,
It starts with drilling lines in the sea.

The mantra I am preaching is really quite simple
Three words, fourteen letters and one smiley dimple,
“Drill, baby, drill,” forget all the spiel, or the bill, or the spill
Obama, just join my team and we’ll drill, baby, we’ll drill!

Malibu will be harboring tankers,
To run refineries we’ll hire bankers,
The Oval Office will be hosting a rig
And on the chair will be rocking my Trig.

Out of Disney we will build oil plant,
Green energy we’ll with benzene supplant.
We’ll feed a tap from Lincoln’s lap,
With pipelines the Smithsonian strap.


We’ll run a furnace at the Washington memorial
And under the dome we’ll host a fuel tutorial.
We’ll link by a pipe the Fed with the Treasury
They will no longer quarrel and live all in luxury.”

Obama was silent, he was in dismay
The clock was still ticking, his thoughts were away.
Oh, Palin the Poet led him astray,
He didn’t want this game to replay.

Greasy beaches, marshlands succumb,
Globs of gooey oily gum,
Nature is dying, Barack becomes numb,
He waits in his office for Tony to come,

The lines of Sarah were drilling his mind:
He did what he could, the spill wasn’t behind.
Drill, baby, drill, no matter the bill, or the spill,
Just join my team and let’s drill, baby, let’s drill

At last the oil reaches so high
That it finally touches the sky.
And all the people to Mars move away,
And none of them on the beaches will play.
And finally Tony Hayward Flout
Exclaimed, "OK, I will get the oil out!"
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The oil bubbled at sickening rate.

To sadness of all, I don’t know Tony’s fate,
But I did hear stories of his soul mate
Sarah, Alaska’s Oil Scout,
Her crude old hymns she did often shout
Drill, baby, drill,
No matter the spill,
Just drill, baby, just drill!