He has scant use for evidence or facts
Instead of plans he implements his hopes.
And calls it instinct when he rashly acts.
He slips and slides down sheer semantic slopes When catapulting propaganda wild.
And after thin mirages madly gropes
As lost and lonely as a wayward child
Depending on indulgence from the mass:
The people whose good name he has defiled.
His oral orifice emits a gas
To fumigate his Elmer Gantry tent
In coded Jesus-jive he thinks will pass.
He only tells the truth with bad intent
As well as all the lies he can invent.
As if impressions of a fleeting blur
Imply more than incumbency that coasts
Stamped with his own inbred imprimatur
A busy bungler bragging of his boasts
In tones insulting to the smallest mind
At home, abroad, and everywhere he roasts
Inedible repasts of every kind
Performing passé rituals and rites
Designed to help the bland mislead the blind
The fundamental passions he ignites
Incendiary ignorance a link
The hard-won work of centuries he blights
He gads about the globe to chat and drink
Why does he never just stay home and think?
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright 2006-2010