Goodbye, August! So long, farewell!

You really were the month from hell,

But so were June and July, too,

A pair of steaming stinkeroos.

With record heat and parching drought,

No fun at all to be about,

You wore me down! You ironed me flat!

You gave me major heat rash that

Has made me scratch, and itch, and wail,

And dream of icebergs cold and pale,

Where I could sit and cool my rump,

And see my heat index finally slump.

In truth, you weren’t the greatest treat

To young folks on the Arab street,

Whose hopes of freedom sadly ride

On despots who refuse to slide,

Or simply up and pass away,

And let the people have their say.

With London, meanwhile, burning up,

The shuttle made its last trip up,

To take a long last loving look

Upon a planet being cooked,

With man-made gases, some agree,

Or just a green conspiracy.

Whatever else is true, my friends,

This summer needed fresh Depends.

The load of bad news far and wide,

Could make a hermit wish to hide.

No jobs, no growth, no ray of hope,

With Wall Street fat as a Borgia Pope.

Time proclaimed the euro toast,

While flash mobs robbed those with the most.

Lord Rupert’s News sure had us hacked,

A crazed Norwegian took us back

To echoes of a master race,

Complete with blue-eyed, smiling face.

MTV turned 30 — what can one say?

Have a bleeping-bleep birthday.

In three short decades you’ve managed to

Destroy whatever once was true

Of civil talk, with words of blue.

This summer’s end can't come to soon,

For mad dogs ’neath the sun of noon.

The Apes rose, the Dow fell, the country’s mood went straight to hell,

The market’s up! The market’s down!

The hot air of Congress goes round and round.

To raise the ceiling or let it plunge?

Let’s have a party — tea, anyone?

Meanwhile the candidates endlessly debate,

The trivial affairs of state.

Bachmann screeches, Obama preaches

From a Vineyard out to sea,

While Romney bores, gold bricks soar,

And Rick the Ranger wants to be

the Texas newbie guaranteed,

To make a liberal cease to bleed.

Pawlenty wasn’t, and Huntsman ... who?

The polls show we loathe all of you!

At least it’s football time again,

Despite the NCAA’s woeful spin,

On scandals that should make us think,

It time to let the whole ship sink.

As summer wanes, it’s nice to know

That Moammar finally had to go,

It’s looking up, I swear, it’s true!

Irene has thankfully just blown through,

But don’t let down yet — haven’t you heard?

Hurricane Sarah’s coming,

On September third.

Jim Dodson, Sunday essayist for The Pilot and editor of PineStraw magazine, can be reached at jim@the-pilot.com.