The Misfortune Teller ("A Sorry Solipsistic Siren Song")

A Sorry Solipsistic Siren Song
(We're here because we're here because we're here because we're here)

Around him in his court some scribes he kept
Who with informal nicknames proved adept
At not reporting all the times he slept
Or all the tasks at which he proved inept
As war up on our napping nation crept

Our vain imposter in a bubble ruled
A people often and completely fooled
Rejoicing in a leader so unschooled
That when he tried to speak he merely drooled
While in Iraq blood splattered, spread, and pooled

He felt no urgent need to change or tack
Because his troops, not he, absorbed the flak
He vowed to never waver or turn back
His yokel yodel, yammering, and yak
Left no doubt that his skull contained a crack

He found the country’s magic credit card
Left lying in the country’s open yard
Which meant he’d caught the country off its guard
Which others, too, found scarcely very hard:
A haughty herd hoist by its own petard

For who had placed such emptiness on top?
Who harvested this hollow, stunted crop?
Who let an addict start who couldn’t stop?
Who’d rather drink a river than a drop
Who needed babysitters as a prop

It doesn’t look too good for Uncle Sam
Whose credit rating just received a slam
For gambling debts from gamblers on the lam
Most notably the chief commanding sham
Who has a brain that doesn’t weigh a gram

Now trapped within the web of lies he spun
More dangerous than Cheney with a gun
(Who, when he aims at quail, the lawyers run)
His bloody mess he aims to leave undone
Few lesser “leaders” breathe beneath the sun

The nightlight shining softly by his bed
Illuminates an empty sleeping head
His dreams result in many people dead
His ancestors now hide in shameful dread
Embarrassed by the fool their genes have bred

Yet no one seems to know just what to do
About a man who governs for the few
Who takes a jaunty jaded jaundiced view
Of those he sees as subjects he can screw
Or troops that he can bleed till they turn blue

His party and his pundits say they see
Some pants invisible to you and me
Which only those with his same pedigree
Would witness by imperial decree
Or, when so ordered, drop their own and pee

Not much is left of that proud liberty
That once Americans considered free
Now stolen by this spawn of larceny
Who stamps as “secret” his known perfidy
Who cannot face the truth, his enemy

He says we can’t be trusted if we know
What he has done and how he plans to blow
More billions causing needless blood to flow
With nothing ever offered up to show
Why he should not up on the scaffold go

A necktie party, yes, might do the trick
Some tar and feathers, too, for George and Dick
Who’ve earned their names: the Codpiece and the Prick
Who sold some snake oil to the deathly sick
Who ordered much but never served a lick

Ulysses chained himself but not his crew
Their ears he stopped against the sounds that slew
And thus they rowed through waves and winds that grew
While he strove with the only gods he knew
So he could pass, yet hear their music, too

But our King George the Worst stays on the docks
And waves “goodbye” as troopships leave the locks
His motto: “After You!” no longer shocks
As he hires other men to tend his flocks
While carpetbagger cronies hump their stocks

Which leads us to Barack Obama, known
For making Dubya's wars his very own
And adding to them others which have grown
(Through profligate employment of the drone)
Into the body-count and free-fire zone

Which our lost War on Southeast Asia taught
Us to regard as surefire proof of naught
But only bogus bullshit numbers fraught
With lies our "leaders" sold themselves, then bought
Which only left them on the hook and caught

So Dimwit Dubya has a dark-skinned clone:
Obama, whose failed wars have only shown
That no amount of more war can atone
For waging stupid murder from the throne
Of presidential twerp testosterone

A sorry solipsistic siren song
A darkness deeper than the night is long
In their mad minds no right can do a wrong
And fatal weakness only signals strong
A blind man would have seen it all along

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright 2006-2015