George's Rubaiyat

AP: February 2, 2008: Putin fielded an array of questions touching on topics ranging from steps to resolve the dispute over Iran's nuclear program to water levels in a particular Russian reservoir. Asked what he does to brighten up a bad mood, he said he talks to his dog, Connie, who "gives good advice" or reads Omar Khayyam poems from a book his wife, Lyudmila, gave him. "I recommend it," he told reporters.

Tehran Times: April 17, 2008: TEHRAN -- The first edition of "Khayyam and Putin", a book published in Kazan, was sold out a week after its release. The book contains Russian translation of President Vladimir Putin's favorite quatrains by Omar Khayyam, great poet of Persian classical literature, Russia's Regnum News reported last week. In addition, the book comprises the texts of Putin's interviews with several Russian and foreign mass media about his love and respect for Omar Khayyam. "In my free time I study works by Omar Khayyam", Putin has said in answering a question about his spare time.

George Bush's favorite Quatrains from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, as read to him by his dog Barney when he's in low spirits (with apologies to Omar Khayyam and Edward Fitzgerald):

I.

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Nuke that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Commander in Chief has caught
The Evil Axis in a Noose of Light.

II.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtless Soul to Crawford retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Brush
Helps Clear it, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

III.

Iraq indeed is gone with all its Rose
And Cheney's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Hedge Fund her ancient Rubies yield,
And still a Presidential Library by the Water blows.

IV.

Whether at Kandahar or Babylon.
Whether the Cup with Sweet or Bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
But fear not: January is a few months and one.

V.

And look--a thousand Missiles with the Day
Woke--and a thousand souls scatter'd into Clay:
And that last Summer Month that brought the Rose
Did it Rummy and Bremer take away.

VI.

But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Condi and Gates forgot:
Let McCain lay about him as he will,
Or Cheney cry Supper--heed them not.

VII.

'How sweet is mortal Sovranty!' -think some:
Others--'How blest the Paradise to come!'
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive all but War;
O the brave Thunder of a distant Drum!

VIII.

The Worldy Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon Baghdad's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two--is it gone?

IX.

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears--
Tomorrow? -- Why Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Eight years.

X.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, but not before the surplus upend,
Sans wine, sans Song, sans mortgage, and--sans End!

XI.

Alike for those who for Today prepare,
And those that after some Tomorrow stare,
A Cheney from the Tower of Darkness cries,
Fools! Your reward is Tehran laid Bare!

XII.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by a different Door as in I went.

XIII.

Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, 'What Lamp had Destiny to guide
'Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?'
And--'A blind Mis-Underestimating!' Heav'n replied.

XIV.

Ah, fill the Cup: -what boots it to repeat
How time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn Tomorrow, and dead Yesterday,
Chew the pretzel and Today be sweet!

XV.

While the Rose blows along the Garden Brink,
With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when old Cheney with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee--take that, and do not shrink.

XVI.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of Good Cheer to Spouse.

XVII.

For 'Is' and 'Is-not' though with Rule and Line,
And 'Up-And-Down' by Sophistry I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.

XVIII.

Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning? --Nay,
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Dollar Tomorrow, and Taxes yesterday.

XVIX.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through
Only Putin returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover, we did travel too.