Collected Poetry VOLUME THREE Copyright © 2010 by Gary Bachlund All international rights reserved It's only a matter of.... Most kids love cake.
But congressmen? Pork.
It's only a matter of
The kind of fork
They use/abuse...
Most kids love chips.
Politicians love lard;
It's only a matter of
Their disregard
Of law. Hee-haw...
Most kids grow up,
Politicians sour.
It's only a matter of
The day and hour
They spoil. Turmoil...
Most kids love games
Which follow rules.
That's not a matter for
Bureaucratic tools.
Cash flows. Deals close...
Kids learn to play fair.
Congressmen? Not at all.
It's only a matter of
Loving to brawl.
Money swirls;
They stash their cash...
Shearing and Fleecing Sheep have been sheared for ever so long,
And gotten used to their shearers' song.
A fleecing is the clipping of a tax paying throng
Using pitchforks with many a sharp legal prong.
When sheep give more than their coat away,
It's slaughterers that come for them as prey.
When tax payers see too much taken away,
It's likely a revolution is coming some day.
The difference twixt people and sweet wooly sheep
Is more than, one might venture, skin deep;
It's a truth that sheep will make hardly a peep
To be butchered, while people find it a little steep.
Sheep have been sheared for generations,
While men have lost firm foundations.
The stripping of fruit from many plantations
Is the work of politicians' legal creations.
The difference twixt sheep and people is small,
As people are sheared in the communities' mall.
It's the truth that sheep must die to give all
Being butchered, while people squeak considerable squall.
Shearing and fleecing are a matter of skill;
Seasoned shearers are quick with their art for the thrill.
But the daily work of fleecing is a matter of drill,
To dig ever deeper into some societal till.
Two-Party Politics Some folks live with their thumbs in a screw,
While others dictate just what to do.
Some folks live quite happily free,
Which irritates those who'd chain them with glee.
Two parties, wearily warring through time,
Make all of history's stories and crime.
Which are you? Which would you be?
Which is he, and which is she?
"Leave me alone."
"Get in your face!"
"Don't throw that stone."
"Class warfare and race!"
"I'll wander off."
"Oh no, you won't!"
"Why do you scoff?"
"I'll see that you don't!"
Some folks love to be full in charge,
And pander the press to make themselves large.
Others just trundle their ways on their own,
Which usually causes the fist folks to groan.
Two parties -- for and against -- they are these:
One calls for shackles, the other for keys.
Which will you be, the question condensed?
The one who enslaves or the one who is freed?
"Leave me alone."
"Get in your face!"
"Don't throw that stone."
"Disloyal disgrace!"
"I'll wander off."
"Oh no, you won't!"
"Why do you scoff?"
"I'll see that you don't!"
Mostly named parties are somewhere in between,
For labels and names most truly have been
Misused, abused, and bruised equally,
By the party of the first part sequentially
Against the party of the second part
Which was always the target from the start.
Being free is simply being free,
And for some folks, that simply can't be.
"Leave me alone."
"Get in your face!"
"Don't throw that stone."
"Class war and race!"
"I'll wander off."
"Oh no, you won't!"
"Why do you scoff?"
"I'll see that you don't!"
Metaphor Ex-Gov. George Ryan won't get to collect his state pension as he sits in an Indiana federal prison, a decision his attorney former Gov. Jim Thompson called "deeply disappointing" because the once-affable cigar-smoking old-school Republican "has nothing." Chicago Breaking News, 19 February 2010
One's a pig, and Two's a pig,
And Three's a piggy too.
Four, Five, Six? They're pig, pig, pig,
And Seven's a pig, that's true.
Eight and Nine, porcine and big.
Ten little piggies oink their due.
When the pen is filled with pig,
The trough with slop's askew,
If farmer doesn't slop each pig,
Then pig-dom's done and through.
But even as the slop they swig
Spills out, the fat they chew,
There'll come to every sow and pig
The slaughter which is their due.
Bacon, ham and shoulder butt,
Pig's feet, pork chops and all the rest
Are the piggly wiggly's well-trod rut:
Down the chute, then carved and dressed.
Once with joy in mud they'd strut,
They'd thought their pig lives blessed,
And gave no piggly wiggly "what"
To what is butchery's final quest.
Had they inkling? Eyes wide shut?
Would the pigs had ever guessed?
For unknown fate's unkindest cut
Is the ultimate piggy test.
Who's a pig? Is youse a pig?
Each tale's some pig's corkscrew?
So many seem quite like a pig,
It sparks this interview:
Who's a pig? Is youse a pig?
Then ponder, think, review
That when a pig is such a pig,
A pig's fate will surely come true....
A Canary in a Coal Mine A canary in a coal mine
Is a bird whose goose is cooked.
Whether in his altogether
All his feathers looked
Deadened by the poisoned fumes
Or toasted rather fine,
The detail really all subsumes
To the post mortem of a tine.
Is he dead? O, is he passed
And worthless for further use?
He seemed to die off rather fast,
While stewing in his juice.
But, such is life, hard men observe,
For that is their perspective;
They have deemed the canary serve
According to their directive.
The citizen in some nation
Might quite well serve the same,
If he were just to die off
And not to give them the blame.
They'd know what works, what doesn't,
And how long this stuff all takes,
And since his death, he will be sure
To not further raise the stakes.
They'll get another bird or two
To run their tests again.
He might be someone just like you,
Just like so many men.
For such is life, hard men observe,
As that is their perspective;
They have deemed each canary serve
According to their directive.
A Lawyer's Lesson Sensed the lure
Of the Law.
Thought it pure;
Stood in awe.
Studied hard.
Passed the bar.
Liked the lard.
Went too far.
Fell too short.
Went to jail,
Then to court.
Stood the bail.
Argued hard,
Lost the case.
Prison yard
Was the place
Consequence
There was taught;
False defense
Comes to naught.
Learn the rule
From this tale.
Law is cruel,
Save for bail.
Lemmings Lead, Lemming, left.
Lead, Lemming, right.
Lead, Lemming, and thereby
Set your crowds to flight.
Leader Lemmings call the shots,
And Lemmings cheer, hurray!
Over the cliffs and to the drops
Is the Lemmings' urge. Away!
For the greater Lemming folk!
For all the Lemming people!
Reach out for all our Lemming-kind,
From minaret to steeple.
Lemmings run, Lemmings collide
And Lemming leaders clash.
Whole Lemming flocks find cliffs anew
And towards them do they dash.
Heed the call, Lemming Brothers!
Sister Lemmings to the edge!
Lemmings! Stick together!
This is the Lemming pledge.
Oddly, Lemming Leaders
Linger near the back.
It seems when push has come to shove,
They leave their Lemming pack....
We Get Nothing - a kindergarten level curricula "Within 12 years…the largest item in the federal budget will be interest payments on the national debt," said former U.S. Comptroller General David Walker. "[They are] payments for which we get nothing." ABC News, WASHINGTON, Feb. 17, 2010
David said.... When we owe too much, we get nothing
But must pay to keep wolves at bay.
When we owe it all, there's simply nothing
To salt away for a rainy day.
Yesterday's paid with tomorrow;
Tomorrow has come today.
Yesterday's gone, today's sorrow
Is the borrowing which went astray.
When we owe too much, we have been fools
And creditors knock down the doors.
When we owe it all, we've got no tools
To fix what time no longer ignores.
Yesterday's paid with tomorrow;
Tomorrow has come today.
Yesterday's gone, today's sorrow
Is the borrowing which went astray. Kiddies, your debts are astounding, Though truthfully, they're not your fault. Children, the old folks compounding This error was their foolish assault, for... Yesterday's paid with tomorrow;
Tomorrow has come today.
Yesterday's gone, today's sorrow
Is the borrowing which went astray.
No More Nonsense Nonsense is sense of a nonsensical sort,
Which frictions a giggle, a smile or a snort,
For upsense is downsense, as incense, it smells,
And outsense makes sense when one truly misspells.
Fairsense and foulsense and brightsense and dark
Are overly sensitive when done for a lark.
Birdbrains make birdsense to feather their nest
As faculties meet, acadensically dressed.
Sense? You? Us? Sexy in sensible shoes?
Sense, you all! Clowns and tattooed cuckoos.
Nonsense is sense -- a bull shit from a bull,
Like high is to low, or a push to a pull.
Bolder dashed bosh is the folly of man,
Best served hot cold in a steely deadpan.
Rubbish and rot quite like twaddle and tripe,
With never a pain of regret or a gripe.
Reality weighs quite heavily on scales,
And nonsense relieves like fish farting on whales.
Silliness, chilliness, frilliness fair,
It's hilliness nonsense that makes circles square.
Fallow the leader, and checker your chess.
Read this no more, and your thoughts will egress.
Death Knell for the Maids “The criticism that took place of group travel was really a death knell for the industry,” Tisch said yesterday in an interview at an office of the New York-based holding company, which owns hotels. “It’s easy for the politician to get the sound bite. What they are doing with those sound bites is putting maids and bellmen out of work.” -- Loews CEO Tisch: US did a “good job of killing” hotel business, eTurboNews, Global Travel Industry News, 9 February 2010
Maids and bellmen out of work?
Just politics that's gone berserk.
Hate the business, corporate set?
Hate their perks? The corporate jet? Well, when the money doesn't flow,
It's little jobs that fade and go.
Maids and bellmen, waiters, clerks,
And not the moneyed folks with perks,
Who lose the largest share of all,
Because their share was ever small,
And when that ups and wanders off,
The class war crap drops in a trough.
If corporate barons are at fault,
I'd add politicians aren't worth their salt.
When government nabobs grow too fat,
There's every chance there's a caveat
To excuse the politician's hefty cost
While calling business a holocaust.
Who gets burned? The jobless maids
Whose very future fades and fades.
The little folks, they rely on jobs
And not on bigmouthed boors and snobs.
Kill a business with a sharpened word
Kills much, much more and is absurd.
Maids and bellmen out of work?
Class politics has gone berserk.
Chocolate trees Chocolate trees grow
Much fruit on their limbs,
Aficionados know
The stuff widens, not trims.
But what is the harm
In the race one calls life?
Dear chocolate hath charm
For good man and good wife.
Tell Me Tell the bull that gored you
You're a vegetarian.
To those with hatred toward you,
You're humanitarian.
Use your generalities
To stand upon quicksand,
And pile up adversities
Thinking life quite fairly planned.
Standing in the fast lane
As cars come roaring by
Is certainly to explain
You flattened, by and by.
Tell the many reasons
Why life blind sides you so,
Ignoring all the seasons
Which change, which come and go.
Tell me just how life should be
As if life would play your game,
And I'll watch you in agony
Tilt at windmills, seeking fame.
Each bull is a bull and life is life,
And ne'er the two shall be
Synonymous, for life is rife
With quixotic anomaly.
Tell me what is and what is not,
Even when I have not asked,
And I'll be sure to see you taught
By life, surprisingly unmasked.
Corruption "Corrupt public officials continue to devise ingenious and audacious schemes to overcome any obstacle between them and the taxpayers' money." Rose Gill Hearn, in Daily News (NY) Bronx City Council member Larry Seabrook hit with laundry list of corruption charges, 9 February 2010
Cheer the populist's cheerful line,
As he on public funds will dine.
"For the children, for justice done,"
For corruption sings such stuff for fun.
Plead "not guilty" in a court of law,
And listen for the least guffaw.
All should come to side with him,
For he thinks most folks are dim.
Perhaps he's right, perhaps it's true,
For many people have no clue.
Government corrupts because it does,
Which is why it lies with noisy buzz.
"For the children, for justice done,"
Is corruption's song it sings for fun.
Stab the straw man Stab the evil straw man to kill him deadly dead,
Debating not competitors, but silent straw instead.
The straw man doesn't fight back, nor rage nor know the score;
The straw man stands and takes it, awaiting even more.
Propping up an argument by massacring straw
Is much like windmill tilting, or standing above the law.
When a man debates with something which simply cannot win,
He plays loose and fast with rules, and shows no discipline.
To prop up some old straw man just to knock him down
Is a trickster's trick, a liar's lie and proves one quite the clown.
Stab the standing straw man, and shove it to the ground?
A ruse, a ploy and a deceit proving arguments unsound.
The stratagem trots out with pride, strutting, puffing proud;
It reaches for the winner's wreath before the win's allowed.
The straw man? Why, it teeters, it totters and it falls;
The straw man builder crows as if he won in battering straw man brawls.
Indeed he has, because we know that straw men have no brains;
They are propped by the foolish man who prevaricates and feigns.
"They say" is fine and dandy, when "they" is built of straw,
Because those sad, dead straw men cannot fight, even to a draw.
But when the victor over straw faces a foe with fact,
So often will he cry "Unfair!" as, if victim, he were attacked.
Those who would build a straw man and trot it to debate
Will often lose to simple facts because such is their true fate.
Stabbing evil straw men to kill them deadly dead
Is to avoid tough competitors for stupid straw instead.
The straw man doesn't fight back, nor rage nor answer back;
A straw man is propped up to fall, when the debater is a hack.
Troubles "A generation which ignores history has no past and no future." Robert Heinlein (1907-1988) Troubles are as
Troubles were, as
Troubles will be again.
That's the way
One lives today
In this world of troubled men. Tell trouble's stories; Their ancient quarries Reveal each why and when. Troubles teach their Roots, and dare Us not relive them, then. But men forget Each trouble's threat, Condemned to them again, Or refuse to learn, Their lessons spurn, And troubles come again.
Chicago Poem III The heads of a hydra
Come off and then grow back;
Yet another alderman?
Another political hack?
"Carruthers pleads guilty,"
Sang WGN TeeVee.
Bribes and extortion,
A racketeering spree! Count them in the dozens And count them over time; "Pigs in their prisons' pig-pens" -- A Chicago paradigm.
Extremely Green "The battle to feed all of humanity is over. In the 1970s and 1980s hundreds of millions of people will starve to death in spite of any crash programs embarked upon now. At this late date nothing can prevent a substantial increase in the world death rate." Paul Ehrlich, The Population Bomb, Ballantine Books, 1968.
Extremely green mean to kill off men,
But not the turtles nesting,
Not ruffling some feathers in an airy nest
To save the seas from cresting.
Cull man's herd of resource hogs
Who greedily chew and devour,
But save non-human parasites
Who gobble by each passing hour.
Save this world from pestilence,
As long as the pest is man;
The other pests well might survive
As well, as best they can.
Darwin's fine for critters all
Except for those called man;
Green men choose mankind to fall
As is their green-edged plan.
Man is a cancer on their earth,
Green minds err in the extreme,
And so man should not come to birth
Excepting the Green's own cream.
Do as I say, not as I do,
The Greens did blather on.
They chose man as their bugaboo,
And crossed over their Rubicon.
The Voice Box - (Rhymed paraphrase of an Eduard Möricke nonsense poem) The voice box, in its hollow boom,
From a willowy allergy up did bloom,
And finally did it fuss and fume,
With a neat, sweet sort of laryngeal rheum,
That from the back it forth did spume,
With a forward thrusting sort of plume.
Odd, is it not? "My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind." Albert Einstein.
Odd, is it not? God is what's got Little minds tied in a knot. Delusion? So Many well show God: but is it error, though?
Prove God? I can't.
Must I? I shan't. "I am that I am" recant?
Delusion? What effrontery, but Atheists rage as they strut.
Odd, maybe yes;
Belief is a guess, A supposedly unfashionable dress,
As those who rage In this day and age Shake their intellectual cage.
Odd, is it not?
God is what's got Atheist men so distraught. "Admiration," said A physicist fed On relative brilliance, not dread.
Odd, is it not?
God is what's got Einstein deluded? What rot.
The colors of man The color of man is the green of his envy,
And the color of man is the red of his rage.
The color of man bruises in black and in blue,
And his color is a yellowed fear of the cage.
The color of man is both bright and intense,
And the color of man is pale and weak.
The color of man is varied and dappled,
And his color is stained with the blood of the meek.
The color of man is the blossom of dawn,
And the color of man is his tincture of woe.
The color of man is a costume of rainbows,
And his color is tarnished by the many we know.
The colors of man mean all and mean little,
And the colors of man are the reason for war.
The colors of man blind the eye of the seeing,
And these colors wash over an unmoving shore.
Kurfürstenstraße 115/116 "Wenn wir 50 Eichmänner gehabt hätten, hätten wir den Krieg gewonnen." Heinrich Müller - Chef Amt IV der Gestapo
The old, the halt and the lame?
The mentally deficient, the same.
Homosexuals and the Jews
Rounded up, yet few saw the clues.
Carted away and well forgot,
Millions gassed and millions shot.
The chef of the bureau that ran the plan
Said with fifty like just one Eichmann
The war would never have been lost;
But thinking on the awful cost,
No price would have been too high
To see just Eichmann be judged and die.
What some say is cruelty to the one
Is to brush aside such evil he'd done.
The building stands no more,
And victory tells the score.
Silly You Sell your birthright for a bowl of soup?
Folly beyond compare.
Trade your freedom for your daily bread?
You've stepped into the snare.
Sell tomorrow just for today? Dream that trouble's far away?
Silly, silly, silly you.
Sell your child's inheritance?
Absurd, but hardly rare.
Swap your rights for a promise lost?
For greater loss, prepare.
Sell your vote for a pretty lie? Then who is that fool that I spy?
It's silly, silly, silly you.
Passive? Quiz him! "If you want to end terrorism, you have to stop being terrorists, which is what war is." Howard Zinn, May 13, 2009 Interview with Amy Goodman, (democracynow.org)
How would it have answered
As Turks stood at Vienna's gates?
How would that have worked out
Against a Third Reich's roaring fates?
How would that have functioned
Against the enemy that hates?
How would he have managed,
Immersed in such dire straits?
Stop! Don't be a warrior,
When a war is raging on.
Stop, lay down your weapons,
And expect the enemy be gone.
Stop, yes stop the terror,
And wait patiently upon
The advancing armies' terror
With their weapons fully drawn.
Pacifism is shining, bright
Projected on classroom walls,
But pacifists? They'll never fight,
Not in the worst of brawls.
Yet they rage and buck and bite
When never danger calls.
But when some terror shows its bite,
Pacifism's surrender palls.
When one equates terror with war,
Confusion reigns supreme.
The pacifists' surrendering roar
Becomes a silent scream.
To end it all, then stop the war?
But without a victory theme?
The pacifist is merely a boor,
With no way to reach his dream.
Some passive-ists were warriors once,
In the savagery of war,
And came to think their words and grunts
Would blunt what they abhor.
But ending war with wordy stunts
Forgets freedom requires more
Than wishing, wanting, wordy runts
To cringe near evil's shore.
None of your damn business "The absurdity of human affairs and the forlornness and emptiness, the fearful loneliness that comes from not knowing if there is any meaning to our lives..." (p. xvii). Saul Alinsky, Rules for Radicals
It's none of your damn business
How I live my life;
You're not some Mister Bigness,
Just a thug with a wordy knife.
What is it to you then
If meanings aren't the same?
My meaning is what and when
I say it is, I claim.
So butt out, buzz off, take a hike
And leave me be in peace;
You might want to gin a strike,
When I would see one cease.
Or I might find my meaning
Where you can see no thought;
Perhaps the way you're leaning
Was so absurdly taught
That human lives are quite absurd,
Forlorn and empty too,
But that's just blather, word by word,
Out of angry, empty you.
What's really truly radical
Is what you did not see,
That you are you, your obstacle
Is that I shall be quite me.
Not who you would say I am,
All empty, filled with fear,
But someone seeing through your scam
With human, thinking cheer.
Absurd and empty? Or forlorn?
That's what you say folks are.
But I know quite why I was born;
It's not your exemplar.
It's none of your damn business
And you have not the right. Living free is my mistress
And for her I would fight. What is it to you then
If meanings aren't the same?
My meaning is what and when
I say it is, I claim. Grumbling words hide your inner tyke, Whose tantrums ought to cease.
So butt out, buzz off, take a hike
And leave me be in peace.
Bird Songs - (rhymed paraphrases of Wilhelm Busch poems) i. Finch and Frog
A finch piped up in an apple tree
that finch's cheeky cheep-a-cheep-cheep!
A tree frog climbed up to him laboriously,
Up to a green-leafed roof quite steep,
And swelled himself to croak: "It's me,
Neighborly ready to croak-a-peep-peep!"
And as the bird was fresh, freshly sweet,
So sweet to the spring did it tweet-a-tweet-tweet,
The frog joined in with a raucous bleat,
A moaning drone, quite indiscrete.
The finch burst forth: "Hurrah! Hurray!
I'll think that I shall fly away!"
And leapt into the sky that day.
"What!" cried the frog, "Well so shall I!"
And believing such foolish lie,
Fell splat to the ground where it did die.
Flat as a pancake flat, doornail dead,
It had given its final croak instead.
If someone -- not a bird -- climbs high
And thinks that he might someday fly
Without the wings of the birdy bird,
Why then, such thinking is simply absurd.
ii. The wise owl
The wise old owl holds still his tongue
When two sides' angry words are flung.
A stork and raven once did dispute --
"Did the Lord God (who was truly quite astute)
Make first the egg or bird? Refute!"
The stork screeched, "T'was the fowl!
That is truth, most certainly allowed!"
The raven croaked, "The egg was first!
Who can't see that is brain-dead! Cursed!"
They both went on quite loud and long,
As two nosey frogs joined the duo's song.
The first invoked, "The stork's so bright!"
The second croaked, "The raven's right!"
"What?" the argumentative birds did say.
"Such frogs dare to join in our bird-brain fray?"
The argument ceased right then and there,
As the birds snapped up the usurping pair
And lunched on frog as their lunchtime fare.
"Yup," punned the wise old owl,
"Staying silent, the frogs would not have run afoul."
iii. Dreadful Henry
His mother said, "Dear Henry, son,
"Here're fresh baked pretzels, quite well done."
Henry thought without thinking much,
To bait with pretzel some geese, to clutch.
A gosling swam quite near to shore,
And Henry grabbed it, furthermore.
It struggled with all its goose-like might.
The elders saw its dreadful plight.
The whole gaggle of geese then did attack,
Assaulting Henry, front and back.
Henry fell over from the utter shock,
And was seized upon by all the flock.
With Henry they sprang into the sky,
And flew quite fast and flew quite high.
They came upon the mother's house,
Carrying that mother's awful little louse.
Down the chimney they dropped the lad,
And Henry fell and was bruised quite bad.
Down the chimney with a clatter and bang,
Into the kettle which whistled and sang.
With a ladle so quickly had the mother hooked
Silly, stupid Henry before he was cooked.
In front of the oven he had to stay
To dry out, on that goose-flown day.
The geese, one notes, had a pretzel to eat,
Which tasted all the more deliciously sweet.
A Messenger from God "'I proclaim the end of the world. All the world will be destroyed in this century. Every human being will die in this century.'," in "Turkish gunman who shot Pope John Paul II walks free from jail and tells the world: 'I am a messenger from God'," Daily Mail, 18 January 2010
A messenger from God needs lawyers?
And sought a gawking press?
Once this was not so;
They came in angelic dress.
Today they come with pistols
To make their inane wee mark,
Which makes this odd comparison
Really rather stark.
Angels, so religions say,
Are not men folk at all;
Their legions make mere mortals
Seem rather fiercely small.
So this wee man is likely more
A slug from Satan's hell,
Than an angel from God's high heavens,
Where angels are said to dwell.
When a messenger from God appears,
I'll need no proclamation
From some self-absorbed little man
And his self-overestimation.
American Cads "Mohammad Omar said that additional US forces would help ease the worsening security situation in the region. 'We have an enemy and know that they want to kill us,' he said in reference to the Taliban. 'Our [German] friends observe this but don’t save us. So we must ask our other [American] friends to save us.'" In, Kunduz governor calls Bundeswehr 'ineffective,' The Local, Germany's News in English, 15 Jan 10 09:30 Central European Time.
"Please send me a killer to help kill a killer;
Don't send me some nice, pleasant lads.
If your boys in this war are just political filler,
I'd rather you send me some murderous cads.
"If someone is aiming a weapon at you,
Would you simply ruffle up your feathers?
When push comes to shove in this terrible stew,
It's soldiers that should break loose from their tethers.
"When the jihadists approach, hate-filled and shrill,
Don't send babes in arms intending not to shoot.
If they look like they're soldiers, why can they not kill?
I'd rather you send me some murderous brute."
Pacifists linger at the back of the fray,
Their politics one endless parade.
But in the front line they seem absent this day;
It just might be that it's all a charade.
This Mohammad wants to help kill a killer;
He asks for no nice, pleasant lads.
When the boys in the war are some pacifist's pillar,
Then the answer comes, send American "cads."
Moral Relativism - verses and refrain “Moral relativism has set in so deeply that the gilded classes have become incapable of discerning right from wrong. Everything can be explained away, especially by journalists. Life is one great moral mush — sophistry washed down with Chardonnay.” Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, international business editor of the UK's Daily Telegraph.
It's a worn out dog that just won't hunt.
It's that surgeon's scalpel that's all too blunt.
It's a fake, a fraud, a foolish stunt.
It's the straw man rushing to a losing front.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
Being decent or ethical is not so quaint.
Isms come, and isms fade,
This relative Ism is one fat charade.
Trotted out in its masquerade,
Moral relativism's morality betrayed.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
Being honest or principled is not a feint.
It's disaster's recipe and failure's song.
It's the odd man out that doesn't belong.
It's the weakest link when a chain is strong.
It's fumbling, daft and hugely wrong.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
Being relatively changing's to be without restraint.
"We're no better than those other folk,"
Says the moral relativist, and not as a joke.
But such a chap will so often invoke
Condemnation of others in a single stroke.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
All it argues is some sinner's a saint.
It's the worn out view of a worn out man,
And the worn out claim of a worn out plan.
If morality is relative, what's it "better than?"
And if no better, there's no "can't." Only "can."
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
It's only a whine, an unethical complaint.
If morals won't do in the relativist's view,
How odd that he is always in some stew.
He always complaining about what is true,
Because he's swimming, grounded in its witches' brew.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
But it struts so proud, in its peacock paint.
It's a worn out dog that cannot hunt.
It's that surgeon's scalpel that's bloody blunt.
It's a fake, a fraudster's foolish stunt.
It's that straw man rushing to the losing front.
If moral means anything, relative it ain't.
Being decent or ethical is not so quaint.
Opaque Transparency "Joe Biden update: He meets on transparency today. But the meeting is closed," in Los Angeles Times, January 14, 2010
Our meeting on transparency is closed;
Opposition to this view will be fully opposed.
All secrets will be secret when they are disclosed,
We'll uncovered all when we're sure not to be exposed.
Our meeting on the truth will be a lie.
Our talk on clarity should mystify.
Statistics will all but duly certify
That up is truly down and pigs can fly.
Our meeting on the law will be a crime,
And budget gaps will bloat with overtime.
Efficiency is deemed a waste of time,
As we ridicule commonsense as not sublime.
Our words will mean whatever we say they mean,
As long as their definitions never seem
To make for problems or come between
Our latest meeting and its transparency theme.
The meeting on transparency is closed.
Of course that makes critics predisposed
To ridicule the upside-down words we supposed
Would pass right by reporters as they dutifully dozed.
The Doomsday Clock "The minute hand of the famous Doomsday Clock is set to move this Thursday, and for the first time, anyone with Internet access can watch. Which way the hand will move and by how much have not been made public." 11 January, 2010, Live Science.com
The Doomsday Clock clicked eighteen times
Over a long, long sixty years;
It neither ticks nor tocks nor chimes,
But plays on mankind's fears.
How many have died in sixty years
Without that Clock to count?
How many were killed? Millions, one hears.
Such numbers mount and mount.
The Doomsday Clock clicked eighteen times
Over those short, short sixty years;
It doesn't tell the time, but oh how it mimes
The curse of mankind's fears.
How many dead have been laid to rest,
Without that Clock's tick-tock?
How many were sick? Died as wars progressed?
That Clock chimed no great shock.
That Clock, it ticks at election times
When need of publicity nears,
And ponders on the pump it primes
For its Doomsday profiteers.
The Doomsday Clock clicked eighteen times
Over a dark, dark sixty years;
It neither ticks nor tocks nor chimes,
But plays on mankind's fears. Doomsday comes daily as number climbs; The Clock notes none through the passing years: It waits to tick when its own mealtimes Hunger for Doomsday press and Doomsday cheers.
Comes the day Comes the day when isn't is,
And wasn't washes out to sea,
And living hasn't got its fizz
And what will be will be.
Comes the time when time is not,
And what might be is eternity,
And living isn't what one's got
To cling to possibility.
Comes the day, coming soon,
Which will not be ignored,
When living proves it's not immune
To the angel's flaming sword.
A Scientific Hit "... there is nothing we can do about them aside from continuing to publish quality work in quality journals (or calling in a Mafia hit)." Assistant Professor Scott Rutherford (on Harvard-Smithsonian Professors Soon and Baliunas) in an email dated 12 March 2003, in copies of correspondence from with the Climate Research Unit (CRU) at the University of East Anglia.
A Mafia hit? A scientific snit?
How awful when the facts get in the way.
A little counterfeit, a grousing hypocrite?
A washing of the data for display?
Earth is sun-lit? That fact we must omit.
Massage the numbers till we win the day.
We must make them quit? How about a Mafia hit?
Well, he was only joking, some might say.
In science is it fit to see killing as quite fit
As long as one's not caught nor locked away?
Did science just admit to a crime it could commit?
It was some teacher in a school and coarse naïveté.
A Mafia hit? A scientific snit?
But, how awful when the facts get in the way.
It's too hot, and it's too cold - a cabaret song in the Russian style "In addition to the global warming challenges, we need to address 'global cooling' effects and to do so promptly," Russia's Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, January 11 (Itar-Tass) .
It's too hot, and it's too cold.
It's too "not," so I've been told.
O heck, what shall we little folk ever do?
It's too up and it's too down.
It's a smile while it's a frown.
O heck, is it me or them or is it you?
It's a challenge, so says Vlad,
And that makes the tax man glad.
For a public crisis is the perfect avenue . . .
When it's hot while it is cold,
In the chase for tax-made gold,
All those leaders know exactly what to do.
It's so hot, not warm but cold,
So a people must be told,
To pay and pay and pay for what is true.
What is true seems rather not,
As the dear leaders take their shot.
O heck, what ever shall we little folk do?
We will pay and then pay more,
For the hot-and-cold that seems in store,
Until the little folk show they are through . . .
With "It's hot, and it's so cold."
Hey, the story's getting old.
I know somehow we folk will muddle through.
White is black In Esquire Magazine, indicted Illinois ex-governor Rod Blagojevich says, "I'm blacker than Barack Obama. I shined shoes. I grew up in a five-room apartment. My father had a little Laundromat in a black community not far from where he lived. I saw it all growing up."
White is black,
and black is white,
Not brown, not beige,
not tan, nor quite
The other colors
we might see
If we had but
the probity
To see the world
in multi-colored hues -
Just two are hurled
to just confuse
By fools who argue
white is black
Which is not true
for such men lack
The sense of man
which should reject
The white-black plan
which is but abject
Politics
and not what's true
But slimy tricks
to stand in lieu
Of right as right
and wrong as wrong --
For that's the fight,
our whole life long.
Oh, to Walk a While in Hitler's Shoes - a cabaret song "I've been able to walk in Stalin's shoes and Hitler's shoes to understand their point of view. We're going to educate our minds and liberalise them and broaden them. We want to move beyond opinions ... go into the funding of the Nazi party. How many American corporations were involved, from GM through IBM? Hitler is just a man who could have easily been assassinated." Oliver Stone, as reported in The Independent, Monday, 11 January 2010
We should understand it wasn't they
That did these things, oh no.
The evidence we've seen is gray;
Der Fuehrer's not the man you know.
Oh, to walk a while in Hitler's shoes
Is a jolly little stroll;
Or maybe Stalin's Soviet boots
Make a better, starring role.
It was those US corporate folks
That did the dirty deed;
All we've learned is a cruel, cruel hoax,
And a rewrite is what tyrants need.
Oh, to walk a while in Hitler's shoes
Is a jolly little stroll;
Or maybe Stalin's Soviet boots
Make a better, starring role.
America caused Hitler's little sports,
And Stalin's murderous game;
It wasn't they themselves, Stone snorts,
For capitalism is to blame.
Oh, to walk a while in Hitler's shoes
Is a jolly little stroll;
Or maybe Stalin's Soviet boots
Make a better, starring role.
Come buy your tickets for my films,
To learn our faults, so brash,
But forget not when you visit me
To bring a little cash.
Oh, to walk a while in Hitler's shoes
Is a jolly little stroll;
Or maybe Stalin's Soviet boots
Make a better, starring role.
Surrealism Lessons Until Surrealism made a deliberate raid on the unconscious, poetry that aimed at being nonsense, apart from the meaningless refrains of songs, does not seem to have been common." George Orwell, in Nonsense Poetry, 1945. Pick one from column A, Pick one from column B.
Hope the two will interplay If even quite abstractly.
Put your name on it, And look quite proud and grand.
If some dare to call it shit, The scandal will be grand.
Be sure they rightly spell your name And print it everywhere,
For all this makes for fame, And fortune, if you dare
Pick one from column A, Pick one from column B.
Never, ever overplay This little game's absurdity.
Green Job "Obama says the grants will create 17,000 cleantech jobs. Well, get out your calculator. $2.3 billion for 17,000 jobs equals $135,294 per job." Obama's Green Jobs Program: $135,294 Per Job Investor's Business Daily, 8 January 2010
What in the hell is a green job?
The costs seem quite macabre.
Breed unicorns? Smoke pot?
Serve the knights of Camelot? What in the hell is a green job? For Bill but not for Bob? Think "green," but don't think math! It isn't numbers; just politics' path.
What in the hell is a cleantech job?
Make the newest thingamabob?
Build heaters that will make you cold?
Or kill off grannies getting old? The average wage of the average Joe Is less than half this kind of dough. Then green like this serves an elite, And the average Joe will see a cheat.
What in the hell is a green job?
Make a pipe from an old corn cob?
Brew alcohol but not to drink?
Write speeches out in doublethink?
What in the hell is a green job?
From others steal and rob?
For more than a hundred K each year,
We'd paint ourselves green, I fear.
Prayer Man is funny; man is sad.
Man is hero; man is cad.
Man is great; man is small.
Man is nothing; man is all.
Man's alive, then man is dead.
By all this man's fear is fed.
I am god, and I'm in charge A TSA agent was arrested on January 3rd in Terminal One at LAX, a source told NBCLA. He had just gotten off duty and was behaving erratically, saying, "I am god, I’m in charge." - "TSA Agent Arrested at LAX," NBC News, 7 January 2010
"I am god, and I'm in charge."
Wait! "God is dead" was once writ large.
Perhaps this god is newborn again,
Dead and gone, and then -- Amen! --
God rose, to work for the bureaucrats
To smack ten thousand public gnats.
Perhaps he'll examine the USA
And then a load of tea essay.
"I am god, and I'm in charge."
Good god, he sounds like old Madame Lafarge.
Like a Duck to Water Like a duck to water,
Like a drunk to booze,
Like a mother to daughter,
Like a ram to its ewes,
Life commands each one play.
Like breath breathed into clay,
Like a lump on the wheel,
Like as night unto day,
Like the anvil is to steel,
Life forms and is underway.
Like a pig in its slop,
Like a john to whores,
Like a bull in a shop,
Like the waves to shores,
Life dances through the day.
Like an addict to coke,
Like a lad to a lass,
Like the white to the yoke,
Like a load to an ass,
Life weighs whatever it may.
Like a fist to a face,
Like a lamb to the slaughter,
Like the prey in a chase,
And the hand that caught her,
Life takes one's breath away.
Deficits “You have left me and other governors no choice,” Mr. Paterson, the former State Senate minority leader, said. “Whether it be by vetoes or delayed spending, I will not write bad checks, and we will not mortgage our children’s future.” Governor David Paterson, New York Times, "Paterson say legislators put state in danger." 6 January 2010
Democrats made deficits,
Republicans did this too.
The SPD and CDU,
the Labour folks and you.
Rob a Peter to pay a Paul
Makes Paul a happy chap,
But Peter won't see things quite like that;
For him the game is crap.
Pointing fingers at someone
Is quite a political ruse,
But numbers vote without delay
And bruise deep blacks-and-blues.
The notion of paying for today
Out of tomorrow's purse
Only means that then tomorrow
The problem will be worse.
Conservatives made deficits,
Liberals did too.
Shall we just point fingers now?
Or stop, as bills come due?
I vote the latter, not the first,
But "want it lots" and "want it now"
Has become the public's thirst
Who "want" all anyhow.
Comes the time to pay the piper,
When the bills come due,
But borrowing from tomorrow kids
Means future debts accrue.
Where's the sense in all of this?
Where's the reason why?
It's because fools have ruled the day,
And thought without an eye
To the future and that time
When debt will come to call
And there be no further borrowing
And one great, messy brawl.
Me! No me! No, I was first,
Will be their battle cry,
For all the nipple-suckers
Will have sucked the teat quite dry.
Either One or the Other Either this way or that way,
But not the both.
Not neither, nor other, I quoth.
When two sides are offered
I might chose neither voice,
And both thereby may not rejoice.
A road not oft taken
Might well be mistaken
As no third alternative.
Two choices will be shaken
To one day awaken
To a third, fourth or fifth narrative.
Either this team or that team?
No, of the two neither one.
Not either, perhaps maybe none.
When cheering commences
I'll choose not to cheer,
And for that the loyal partisans will jeer.
I will not face feints
That someone else paints
When I see alternatives.
Two sides? Each taints
The other as Satan, not as saints.
Such few, too-sided narratives.
Choose one or the other?
No thanks, I shan't.
I will not. I won't. I can't.
When only two sides are offered
I'll might chose neither voice,
And both will rage at me, not rejoice.
The religion of peace "...we are not at war with Islam, which most Americans respect as a religion of peace." - George W. Bush, September 16, 2001
The religion of peace puts bombs in its shorts,
In its shoes or its vests, as it loudly exhorts,
"Behead infidels" who would dare defame
This religion of peace and submission-filled name.
The religion of peace bombs statues and men,
Cooks a child to serve, but sulks in its den
For so brave are the leaders they cower from view,
But boast big and proud to their video crew.
The mullahs' great courage is to hide at the back
While fussing and fuming, to call for "attack."
The same-old chatter of these warrior chiefs
Tells their peace is filled with warrior beliefs.
To say that these folks hold a religion of peace
Is naive, uninformed. Is it politics' caprice?
O, the greatest number of those who've been killed
Have been peaceable members of this "peace," as its billed.
The war on Great Satan is not peace, I explain,
For a worldwide war makes its world war quite plain
In Asia, in Africa, in Europe and more
On Pacific islands, with jihadists galore.
It seems, at the minimum, one might conclude
That their "peace" is at war in their warriors' mood,
Which puts bombs in its shorts, in its vests and its shoes
And is less like peace, more like war, but a ruse
When folks with their well meaning words confuse
Peace with war, war with peace, for not reading the cues
Which tell that the religion of peaceable peace
Has peace-painted war as its faith's centerpiece.
Gimme "A democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the voters discover that they can vote themselves largesse from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates promising the most benefits from the public treasury with the result that a democracy always collapses, over loose fiscal policy, followed by a dictatorship." Alexander Tytler, Scottish Professor (1776).
"Gimme," scream a million throats,
And someone panders for their votes.
"Gimme" sounds a deafening roar,
Combining with urgings such as "More!"
"Gimme" howls till the well runs dry,
And each will grab while the tide runs high.
"Gimme" won't be satisfied,
But rather rages, amplified.
"Gimme" looks for who has what,
And readies a "gimme's" uppercut.
"Gimme," when all people play,
Is a game which cannot win the day.
"Gimme" shrieks with tantrum cries,
And leaders pander, telling lies.
"Gimme" breaks most piggy banks,
And never thinks to give them thanks.
"Gimme" comes to a crashing halt,
When none can hide its deadly fault.
"Gimme" robs and steals men blind,
Creating more of its own dread kind.
"Gimme" spreads like the locusts' curse,
As numbers fall from bad to worse.
"Gimme" learns it soon will starve,
As the end of things comes then to carve
"Gimme" into a thousand bits,
As the largest voices wage their blitz.
"Gimme" screams in a silent breath
As dictators sentence "gimme" to death.
The Seller of a Bill of Goods "For those who balk at the notion that governments should control family sizes, just wait until the growing human population turns twice as much pastureland into desert as is now the case, or when the Amazon is gone, the elephants disappear for good and wars erupt over water, scarce resources and spatial needs." Diane Francis, Financial Post, December 08, 2009 I'd like to sell you a Bill of Goods;
It's made for all those neighborhoods
Where you won't figure the price I charge
Because the cost is so hugely large.
I'd like to slip you a Mickey Finn,
So you'll snooze right through the trap I spin.
If you can't see through my smoke and mirrors,
Then you won't fear too soon the years.
I'd love to Three Card Monty you,
And count on you -- without a clue --
As I rake in the spoils of war
And screw you over even more.
I'd love to tell you what to do,
And what you can't and won't, and who
Is right and who is wrong and, yes,
I'd like to crush a free-writ press.
I'd happily see authority
Be wholly, rightly crowned on me.
With power and my force of law,
I'll rule and reign and demand your awe.
If you won't buy my Bill of Goods,
But see through all the likelihoods,
And if you won't gulp my Mickey Finn,
Then you'll take it on the chin.
If you spot in my cheating hand
The card I've palmed, you'll understand
That I must tell you what to do,
For without that, then my life is through.
Without authority crowned on my head,
I'm ordinary, plain, no one to dread.
Without the right to take yours away,
I've so little joy in the livelong day.
nuttin like a goal For the Lady Jules of Juice faceit!
there is nuttin like a goal,
nuttin' in da woil,
an' if did I do extol,
it's dat nuttin's like a goal.
aceit!
there is nuttin like da wurk,
nuttin' in da woil,
juz a liddle handiwurk
make me smile an' clear away da murk!
Whoppers, lies and fabrications "He was dressed in a garment designed by army scientists for public executions, a greyish one-piece suit made of very thick, fleece-lined cotton. That way, when the bullets are fired, the blood doesn't spurt out but is absorbed by this fabric, which turns red. The body is thrown on a cart and then abandoned in the mountains for the dogs to eat." By Hyok Kang, "North Korea, the dead land" 31 May 2009 Whoppers, lies and fabrications
Outright bull, falsifications,
Propaganda and central control,
Which truth can never quite parole.
Media matters, and chatters and
Builds its houses on shifting sand.
Relative is as relative does,
And everything is just "because."
"Open societies" meet secretly,
Planning their plans quite privately.
Up is down, and left is right,
Correct is false, and black is white.
Truth is convicted of telling no lie;
A death sentence is ordered without a sigh.
The bullets are fired, the corpse then bleeds;
The body's abandoned where no pathway leads.
Buy the lie and kill the truth Buy the lie and kill the truth;
Deceit seems normal, taught in youth.
Equivocate and falsify,
Perjure, fib and justify.
Lies seem wondrous, glittering fine;
On lying truths the fattened dine.
Twist and turn, prevaricate,
Dodge, deceive to fill your plate.
Stretch some truth to knot it tight,
And bind it to some blinded sight.
Beat about some wordy bush,
Preparing both the shove and push.
Artifice, though not an art,
Is honed and sharpened for a start.
Deception sings with mighty voice
Yet offers up no real choice.
Make deaf the ears and blind the eyes,
Hobble those who see your lies. Buy the lie and kill the truth;
Deceit becomes right, when taught in youth.
The Modern, Super Rich "When plunder becomes a way of life for a group of men living together in society, they create for themselves in the course of time a legal system that authorizes it and a moral code that glorifies it." Frederic Bastiat (1801-1850) They get money as you get guilt,
An' if they play this to the hilt,
They're rich! You're poor! They're rich!
They get power an' you get none,
An' if this works, their game is won.
They're rich! You're poor! They're rich!
They win fame while you lose out,
An' they expect you not to pout.
They're rich! You're poor! They're rich!
Count their money as time goes by,
An' watch the sums climb to the sky!
You're poor because they're rich!
You get debt, the public you;
The private them lets debt accrue!
More poor because they're rich!
The robber baron, fancy folk,
The public servants play their joke.
You're poor because they're rich.
An' richer will they grow and grow
Cause that's the only song they know.
They're rich! You're poor! They're rich!
One day they'll find they've won it all,
And then will come one long big fall
In the next revolution's bloody itch.
Continents do not float "One thin September soon / A floating continent disappears / In midnight sun, " Albert Gore, Jr. in "Our Choice"
Continents do not float,
Nor do they disappear.
The midnight sun is only
In the distant climes, it's clear.
September, as one month in twelve,
Is not thinner, year by year.
Borrowing another poet's line
Seems sad, and downright drear.
Mr. Gore, with all your wealth,
You peddle an evangelist's fear.
And the only "choice" is no choice,
From the proposals that I hear.
Continents do not float,
A view I find most queer.
But what might one say of a monger
Who's set himself up as seer?
By Rivers of Thought By rivers of thought
They deceived their eyes,
And saw a world not there.
Their plans came to naught,
Their thoughts were lies,
And a world went on without care.
By torrents of words
They covered their ears,
And heard only what they said.
In trampling herds
They followed their fears
And saw not the cliff just ahead.
By onrushing might
They went over the edge,
And gravity brought them hard low.
A mountain of might
Tumbled from its ledge:
For we all must reap what we sow.
On sewed discontent
And anger and rage,
They were fed on that which kills.
With such a descent
They were locked in their cage
And came full circle to their ills.
Diversity Diversity: a synonym for taking a swim
In a tank filled with sharks for a political whim,
And thinking that nothing will give such a fright,
Until their feeding frenzy takes its shark-tooth bite.
Diversity will no longer be the goal,
For whim's on the menu and not in control.
Diversity smells quite like blood in the sea
And after the feast, diversity cannot be.
In a Church Parking Lot "....peace slogans as they threw rocks, bricks, bottles and bombs..." In an excerpt from a 2009 news story about peace protests.
"War Is Not The Answer" and
"What Would Jesus Do?"
Were pasted, like a corporate brand
As slogans, full in view.
The bumper stickers questioned,
And so I thought awhile.
Would replies be welcomed?
Would other views just rile?
But then, what might a Jesus do,
When push shall come to shove?
If stories tell some meaning true,
Then peace must have its dove,
But also a coming conqueror
Whose second coming's loud
With trumpets, baring error,
With angelic hosts in cloud.
If "What Would Jesus Do"
Has really any meaning,
Then scripture says, the end of days
Brings war-filled final weaning
Away from political appetite,
Away from slogans glorious,
For if I read her scripture right,
The end is war -- victorious.
But "What Would Jesus Do?"
Stood next to "Women's Choice,"
As if millions of unborn dead
Were approved by Jesus' voice.
I wager that the person
Who drove that car to church
Sat quietly for some sermon
That would answer her partisan search.
"What Would Jesus Do?"
Millions of dead babies ask.
"What Would Jesus Do?"
What would be his foremost task?
To roll over and play dead
As tyrants win the day?
To quietly give in instead,
Or fight righteous in the fray?
Would Jesus simply smile
And look the other way?
Would Jesus sit a while,
Acting not in evil's bloody day?
The lady in the church pew
Whose car preached her politics' view
Would surely like to argue
With Jesus o'er what he'd do.
If each slogan means what she teaches,
She should close her bible book,
And practice what she preaches,
Not bible chapters overlook.
War is not the answer?
More likely that it is.
She worships a political cancer,
And that the way it is.
If "War Is Not The Answer"
Was what the allies chose to give
To Hitler's menacing cancer,
How many less would live?
If "What Would Jesus Do"
Were debated while under attack,
Evil 's power would accrue
And blood would stain pitch-black.
If "the answer isn't war"
Was the reply to a fierce "Submit,"
Would radicals' violent stance score
Its target with a bull's eye hit?
"What Would Jesus Do?"
Has answers for the readers
Who seek their scriptures' clue,
And not their party leaders.
The lady in the church pew
Whose stickers sell a political view
Would surely dare to argue
With Jesus, o'er what he'd do.
Coming again, draped in cloud,
In triumph and with force
Is not a pacifist's losing shroud,
But a victorious win, of course.
The lady in the church pew
Ignores her bible's ending,
But prays her political point of view
And some other gods befriending,
For next to those slogan'd stickers
Were pasted Mao and Che;
When last I checked those monikers,
"Millions murdered" was their prey.
Perhaps the lady in the church pew
Who parked her car at church
Prays to some fiction that she grew,
For her "Jesus" seems to lurch
Toward vicious, murderous acts
In the millions' count, by God,
If one cares to check the facts
And not worship a modern fraud.
If "What Would Jesus Do"
Has really any meaning,
Then as her scripture says, the end of days
Brings war-filled final weaning
Away from political appetite,
Away from slogans glorious,
For if I read her scripture right,
The end is war -- victorious.
The lady in church pew
Worships something not quite God,
For when one thinks things clearly through
Her slogans vow she's just a Christian fraud.
President Cool President Cool wears sun dark shades,
While President Peace makes war;
President Smart won't show his grades,
Or much else, furthermore.
President Spendthrift owes too much,
And President Um seems tired;
President Me and I and such
Is deep in quagmires mired.
President Hope might be the first,
But first at what's the query;
President Change might be the worst,
While President Golf looks weary.
President Law pulls down the shades,
While others pull the strings;
President Me loves accolades
His adoration brings.
President Act's deliberate
When pondering Gordian things,
But President Thin Skin snaps the bait
When criticism stings.
President Cool blows hot and cold, As bullets fly and people die,
And President Peace is a trick well sold, As President Lie stands by.
The Scourge of the Planet Thinking on the Optimum Population Trust The scourge of the planet is you, not me;
I bloom from another, better tree,
One not so steeped in your sin and error,
But one that names me kind and fairer.
It's you alone bears original sin,
And I am smarter, with my charming grin.
You must be driven from this world today,
That goodly me can have my way.
And when you're gone, you crawling louse,
I shall take your money and house.
The scourge of this planet is you, not me.
Your eradication is the answer I see.
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