Below is the text of an open letter to the new President of the United States of America from Steven Segal.

Dear Mr President,

Time speaks like an ocean's waves lapping against the shore. This is your time, this your moment, Mr President. It is time for your waves to be lapping against the shore of history.

There are many prescient signs to be taken and considered, but first you must take time to consider the mission that stands before you. You have a good physique and broad shoulders, and I am thankful of that. Your broad shoulders will be weighed down by the problems of the Nation and the Planet and this is why I am writing.

When man is born to greatness, he never has the common touch, but when a man, not born into greatness, strives for, and achieves, the pinnacle of success he may lose the common touch that he had. I urge you, not to lose that common touch, but to use it like a flashlight to shine out into the darkness.

The Economic Situation

Mr President, the economic situation has created many false hopes and has hindered many a good man. It is time for you to say that this tempestuous dragon must put its fires to good use and make each and every home a warm and tender place to live, love and enjoy the friendship of men.

The Ecological Situation

Mr President, the trees are crying, the beavers are weeping, the elk limps, the partridges fly in circles and the sea, once wet with a thousand adventures, is now a vale of tears. The ecological situation is the most deserving of your time, for it is the future of all of our children and our children's children. Within the forest we can hear many beautiful things and taste the sweet glory of morning. Forests, the lungs of the world, are crying out for your change.

The Peace Situation

Is this a mystical object that soothes our brows before sleep? No, I say. It is not. Mr President, this elusive document, this enchanted forest is only a hair away from us. We must grasp this opportunity to put ourselves within earshot of our enemies - to seek them out and talk about peace, but, at the same time, we must remain strong, with our hearts ready for conflict, our swords always to hand for the battle to be joined.

Love

Mr President, I believe that a man is only as strong as his capacity for love. We must love as we make peace and we must love as we fight - will full spirit and potential. If you take a man into battle and that man hears nothing, the battle will be lost. If you take a man into battle and that man hears the sound of angelic harps playing mysterious songs of victory, he shall be victorious and the battle yours. This is the true way; love and strength shall fully bring to us peace and understanding.

Mr President, I am ready to serve. I have the capacity to fulfil any task that you many consider necessary. I shall serve you and only you. I shall remain true.

With best wishes from a fellow American,

Steven Segal

You can also see the text of it here:
http://stevansegalquotes.tumblr.com/post/72346254/open-letter-from-steven-segal-to-president-barak-obama

From the BBC:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7841891.stm

Here's how the new Evening Standard will look:

Mr Cat was sick and lay in his bed,
The Cat doctor arrived and spoke unto him thus:
"You have eaten too much, Mr Cat,
Thy stomach is fair broken and must thou eat no more."

"And I cannot feast upon mice?"
Petitioned the wretched feline.
"Christ no!" Proclaimed the doctor.
"Thou hast feasted far too well, sire!"

Oh trusty Janet, whose moon doeth pine in open field.
Sing song like bird this moist falcon of tire
And bid ding-dong bell to the tidy martins,
Who pip like marshes in private eye side wanderings.

On the third day, the Cat died.
Spake thus was his old side on an otter.
Trasper'd koyte mold bowden by his keeper,
an angry bosper with hair like sponge.

Chinese talking cats,
Fats Domino in the bath.
The Queen, dear children, laughs.
At Chinese talking cats.

Pencil, saucer.
Cold water.
A lion takes nurofen.
Stairs sit upon tired muffins.

Eagle staggers towards the door.
A cloud breaks on a moth.
Early trumpets empty wallets,
and Cliff Richard awakes.

Poundstretcher wakes in a glass coffin.
He roars, "bring me the mallet of Timmy Mallet."
Wind turbines collapse into the dawn.
And it is seven minutes past four, again.