In Virginia's fertile realm, a political vine grows,
With hopes its fruits of governance might sway the Democratic throes.
A goblet are the citizens, filled with choices stark,
As they sip and ponder if they'd favor red o'er blue's mark.

In distant desert lands, where bitter waters flow,
Hezbollah's leader rings a bell of coming woe.
Like mead-house patrons brawling 'pon an insult slight,
Faces burn with anger 'twixt Israel and the fight.

The Eagle's call is heard, a request to sheathe the sword,
Yet Israel's helmsman steers onward, not swayed by foreign word.
Like the stubborn grapes, refusing wine to make,
Shrugs off the autumn frost, ignores the pressing stake.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur