is like asking the horsemen for a ride
to the Apocalypse. White or black,
red or pale, George or Barack,
the harbingers of doom will take us to the brink
until one day soon, without a thought left to think,
we have nothing to look forward to but dying
to the tune of gunfire, chains, and children crying.
It's a plot to get us all, as Johnson said.
They weren't fooling when they stole Obama's plane
and buzzed Manhattan, with an excuse so lame
about it being nothing but a photo op
you'd have to be a moron to believe such slop.
We had a moron and thank God we replaced him
with a man of style, a brain, and good intention
but that's not nearly enough to stop the spooks,
the media mafia, the congresswimps and kooks
who worm their way onto and up the ladder
lying and caring about nothing but getting fatter.
Now we ask the poet what to do,
what is the best way forward, as if he knew.
"Stop signifying, give us something concrete."
"We the people," he begins, "on the street"
"And who will lead us," we interrupt him, "you?"
"Or are you just another one without a clue?"
"I'm afraid there's no one coming," says Mr. Blue,
"and if you know that, you know what to do."
"They'll gun us down like dogs and taser us
and thrown us into FEMA camps for all our fuss,
take our homes and give them to the bankers,
bail out the bosses and the Wall Street wankers,
turn the lights off or invent some disease
and blame it on Socialism or the Iraqis.
send anthrax to put congressmen in terror
or crash their plane and blame it on pilot error
bomb our buildings and rush us into war
with fairy tales and arguments rotten to the core.
"Yes," says Mr. Blue, "that is our curse."
"Why else do you think I would write verse?"
With that poet and reader join hands
and watch the news about Afghanistan.
Nov. 6, 2009
