(With apologies to Robert Service)
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By politicians who moil for graft;
The Juneau jails have their secret tales
That would make you burn in the ass;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
And heard every wolf a wailin',
But none hit the soul, as those two recent polls,
And the cremation of Sarah Palin.
Now Sarah Palin was from Wasilla,
Where methamphetamine runs and flows.
Why she left Lake Lucille for an outside thrill,
The good God only knows.
She was always ambitious, if a little oblivious,
New York and Hollywood cast their spell;
Though she lied through her teeth and padded bra underneath,
That "she'd soon rather live in hell."
Near Valentine's Day, Todd was grinding his way
Over the Iron Dog Trail.
Talk of your cold! Through her Arctic Cat parka's fold,
It stabbed like a driven nail.
The only things worse, was listening to her
When the governorship she was bailin'.
It was absolutely a curse, and politically perverse,
To hear the whining of one Sarah Palin.
Only last month, came a chilling cold front,
As the Harper and Public Policy polls showed quite clearly,
Alaskans had had their fill of the Wasilla shrill,
And no longer loved her so dearly.
So she turned to Todd, seated right next to God,
sayin' : "I think I'll cash in with Fox;
And if I do, I'm pleading that you
Free me from Seward's Ice Box."
On her political deathbead, with Begich ahead,
Even Hilary trounced her in 2016.
"It's the cursèd political cold, and it's got right hold,
'Til I'm chilled clean through to the spleen.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of being ignored that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my political remains."
A gal's last need is a thing to heed,
So Todd swore he would not fail;
And with her makeup gone, at the streak of dawn;
But God! she looked ghastly pale.
She screeched at Todd, and those who blog,
Raving about days past on the campaign trail in...;
But come nightfall, a political corpse was all,
That was left of one Sarah Palin.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And Todd hurried on, guilt-ridden,
With a corpse half hid that he couldn't get rid,
Because of his promise given;
It was lashed to the Cat, and it seemed to blat:
"You may tax your brawn and few brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate these last political remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
As I was a witness, and detested her shallowness,
In my heart how I cursed poor Todd's load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
With Iron Men round in a ring,
They howled out their woes to the homeless snows--
O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on we went, though the machines were spent,
And the meth was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And we'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.
Then Todd heard the shrill of Lake Lucille,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but he saw in it twice
A float plane called the "Alice May."
And he looked at it, and he thought for a bit,
And then glanced at his frozen chum;
"Alas, here," said he, with some hidden glee,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks he tore from the cabin floor,
And I watched as he lit the pyre;
Some gas he found that was laying around,
And he poured the fuel ever higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared--
Such a blaze you seldom see blazin,'
As Ailes, Schmidt and Rove added fuel to the stove,
They stuffed in poor Sarah Palin.
Then I made for a hill, so I could witness the thrill,
I confess my heart started to glow;
And Alaskans smiled, her record reviled,
Arctic winds began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled,
Down my cheeks and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking across the midnight sky.
I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with a grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess she's cooked, and it's time I looked..."
Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat the Quitter, typing a Twitter,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And she wore that sneer the country did fear,
Screeching: "Shut that flippin' door.
It's fine in here, but let's face it, don't grace it,
In Alaska all I do is smoke crack;
So I'm leaving Wasill' and Lake Lucille
And giving a speech at CPAC."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By politicians who moil for graft;
The Juneau jails have their secret tales
That would make you burn in the ass;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
And heard every wolf a wailin',
But none hit the soul, as those two recent polls,
And the cremation of Sarah Palin.
Award-winning writer and filmmaker Geoffrey Dunn's best-selling The Lies of Sarah Palin: The Untold Story Behind Her Relentless Quest for Power was published by Macmillan/St. Martin's in May of 2011.