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an ode to saddam on his birthday - a poetry contest

It's poetry time!

Today is the 66th birthday of Saddam Hussein. Dead or alive, evil tyrant or benevolent madman, mass murderer or benign leader, all depending on who you talk to.

Let's give the guy a birthday to remember. I won't hold you to just limericks today. Free verse, haiku, what have you. Either way they will most likely all come out the same -

roses are red
violets are blue
my puppy is dead
and so are you.

Or something like that.

This time, there will be a prize. Yes, a real, tangible prize that you can actually hold in your hands and show off to your friends and family - your choice of either The Complete Idiot's Guide to Understand Iraq or The Oxford Book of Satirical Verse.

So "celebrate" Saddam's birthday with some poetic justice. Entries due by midnight tonight. Leave them here in the comments.

Rules, regulations, whatnot:

As this contest revolves around it being Saddam's birthday, the poem should mention that at some point.

Length is up for grabs, but no epic poetry, please.

Enter as many times as you wish, but enter only one poem per comment.

You MUST leave a real name and email address.

Trolls welcome, but just wait until my Poetry to Trolls contest. You'll be sorry!

Writing AS someone is good. For instance, Robert Fisks' love poem to Saddam on his birthday would be funny.


Listed below are links to weblogs that reference an ode to saddam on his birthday - a poetry contest:

» Saddam Celebrates Birthday with Surprise Party from ScrappleFace
(2003-04-28) -- Saddam Hussein celebrated his 66th birthday today with the traditional cake and ice cream with friends and family. [Read More]


Hickory Dickery Dock
Iraq was on the clock
The Clock struck 12
And someone yelled
And now Saddam is one dead fuck

Your puppy's dead? Did Glenn Reynolds put it in a blender :)

For he's a jolly dead fellow,
for he's a jolly dead fellow,
for he's a jolly dead fellllllooooooowwwww
that nobody can exhume!

With sincere apologies to T.S. Eliot and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, Saddam and I
When cruise missiles streak out against the sky
Like a dissident being tortured upon a table
Let us go, through half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless looters in old museums
And coalition forces who do not see them:
Streets that follow like a joyous argument
Of liberated intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "Where is Uday?"
Let us go and enjoy your birthday.

In the streets the people come and go
Talking of Hussein The Asshole

Ryan: (-_^)
That was good.

dead dead dead dead dead
dead dead dead dead dead dead dead
dead dead dead dead dead

Cruise Missiles, Cruise Missiles
In the Air.
Bunker Busters, Bunker Busters
Flyin' past.
Saddam Hussein, Saddam Hussein
Gone at last.

So Saddam you are gone
Were you bullied by your stepfather
or own a little dick?

A happy birthday to me!
You have bombed my city!
My power's been reared,
My face has been smeared
And my birthday suit is no longer that pretty!

Saddam turned 66 today, a party is in order
Too bad the guest of honor may be across the Syrian border
Or maybe he's all dead and stuff, a rotting beret and big moustache
Crushed beneath many tons of bunker, concrete, soot and ash.
But let's pretend the man's alive, and keen to party down
So let's order up balloons and cake and maybe, yes, a clown
And if he's dead, let's find his corpse, and suffer through the stench
God knows the smell can't be near as bad as partying with the French
Let's get some kegs and hard liquor and toast the fallen man
And we'll throw all of the party trash in neighboring Iran
We'll rock the Casbah day and night, and pull down statues, too
While yelling loud, for all to hear, "Saddam, this Bud's for you!"

The Democrat

George W. did drop the bomb
T'was an abomination
We'll show him, let's give Saddam
Our '04 nomination

A close inspection
sifts through various pieces
of mustache schrapnel.

Well, it's not a poem, but it rhymes...

Away in a Bunker

Away in a Bunker
No palace for him to hide
The Little Deposed Criminal
Too scared to go outside

His Information Minister
His Cabinet, His Thugs
Are now all sleeping
With the worms and the bugs

The bombs have stopped falling
The people are glad
Cause Little Saddam
Has been run out of Baghdad

The media is confused
The French are just irate
While George Galloway
Finds new income from another despot state

I miss the daily updates
The embedded troops too
Because now I have to
Actually start working...eww...

As composed and read by the Iraqi Information Minister, Baghdad Bob:

The great Saddam, still in control, is 66 years young
Truly, truly I tell you this, because mine is not a lying tongue
He's alive, I tell you, alive and well, and defeating the U.S. snake
So destroyed are they, that Saddam has decided, to take a birthday break
He will tour the streets of Baghdad, and to show that he does care
He'll hold a rifle with one hand, and shoot it in the air
But the bullets won't just fall to earth, and bury in the sand
No, they'll hit U.S. soldiers on their heads, and kill them where they stand
Because Saddam is great and good, the powerful leader of Iraq
He can take a birthday break, and still repel a U.S.-led attack
Now I must go, this briefing's done, there's nothing more to say
But Saddam's alive, this I know, because this is his birthday

To Saddam, on his 66th birthday-
How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, e'en though thou art out of sight
From the eyes of men in thy hiding place.
I loathe thee to the level of every day's
Most noisome need, both by sun and darkest night.
I loathe thee freely, as men strive for right.
I loathe thee totally, as you clamor for praise.
I loathe thee with the passion put to use
In Iraq's old griefs, and with my strength of faith,
I loathe thee with a loathing I will not lose
Because you slaughtered saints. I loathe
with the breath,
Groans, tears, of all the lost lives; and, if
God choose,
I shall but loathe thee more after thy death.

My sincere apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Damn Sad Saddam

Itís April twenty-eighth today, you could be sixty-six.
So many tried to keep you on, the french and 'bloodhound' Blix.
But youíre now past retirement ageóhigh time to sing and laugh,
Unless of course youíre strewn about, or gone with al Shahaf.

So hereís a birthday greeting but itís sad, to say the least,
That no one wants to celebrate two numbers of the beast.
The crowds are gone, there's no parade, no hat to show you fatuous;
Your former slaves are thrilled that your hometown is so unstatueous.

france could not save you
iron fist now crumbled rust
scream or a whimper?

Turning and turning in a widening gyre
The B-2 is contacted with coordinates
In minutes it turns and drops its JDAMs
Things blow apart. The bunker cannot hold
Free anarchy is loosed upon Iraq.

The looting loosed, and everywhere

The spasms of freedom are released.

The average Iraqis loot office chairs,

the worst rob banks and steal antiquities

Surely the 101st is at hand;

The 3ID! Hardly has the shooting ceased,

When the looting is suppressed and

Iranian mullahs infiltrate and attempt

To seize power with miniscule demonstrations,

A vast image from the late 1970s

Troubles my sight. Somewhere in the Eastern sands,

A shape with black turban and white beard

Reminds us of hostage diplomats,

With eyes of hate and pitiless as the sun,

Intent on new oppressions in the wake

Of the power vacuum. The vision ends,

But now I know that thirty years of Baathist rule

Overthrown at last, will not remain so

Unless the might of us Infidels

Remains to midwife the modern nation

Slouching to Baghdad to be born.

It's hard to take notice of the years that are passing
When you're off making war and your people you're gassing
Now you're just a man, with no country to lead
So sit back, relax, and spark up some weed
Hussein, you old goat, you gave us one hell of a ride
It seemed so unlike you to just give up, run, and hide
But such was the fate of your paper tiger regime
Your Republican Guard, it turns out, was easy to cream
Today as you observe the 66th year of your birth
Take time to reflect on how little you're worth
Remember your victims, too countless to tell
And realize with horror that you're destined for hell

Hitler's mistress's Message To Saddam:

He never let me do the laundry.
He was always concerned that I would scrub too hard
and fray the finely embroidered swastika on his bath towels.
I think i'll tear that terrycloth to shreds and tie it to the flagpole
protruding from the remains of your palace
and watch the wind whip that tattered rag
and rain black threads upon the rubble. Your birthday gift.
I stole the disheveled uniform you died in and tucked it in the corner of his bunker. Now he can have something of you as well. It's all about reciprocity.
Hitler said that was my problem, I never gave anything back. I offered to do his laundry. he said no.

Ryan gets my vote

Late Haiku #1:

Hey, Happy Birthday
You'd Be Sixty-Six Today
But Now You Are Dead.

Late Haiku #2

It's Saddam's Birthday
J-Dams Blew Out His Candles
He Missed Sixty-Six

Late Haiku #3

Saddam is Now Dead
No National Holiday
Seems Like A Fair Trade.

Your regime was quite unjust
Now you are reduced to dust.
You no longer can see or hear
On the wall you are a schmear
You had an iron will
Your favorite thing was to kill and kill and kill
You did terrible things, you sinned and sinned
Now your life is gone with the wind.
Perhaps you wasted your final hours
watching your tape of Austin Powers.
Your life has gone amuck!
Unhappy birthday you lousy fuck!

A haiku under the wire, er, Central Time

Your statues were big
Reviled as a head of state
Happy birthday, prick

Rotting ! !
  when you’re a   B  a  a  t  h ist.

There once was a man from Tikrit,
A true louse and a horrible shit.
A friend to the French,
In spite of their stench.
In the end he was blown all to bits.