Humpty Dumpty Omelets

A monarch of a maudlin mob
Once sat upon a wall
An egg disposed to dictate terms
Alike to one and all
Discussion he could not abide
Which caused his fated fall

He had some people write some words
Which he would then recite
From teleprompter cues arranged
Before his simple sight
Which some observers took to mean
He wasn't very bright

Since someone else had phrased his speech
He had no work to do
Composing thoughts or concepts plain
Which he could then review
Before suggesting publicly
What none knew to be true

He put some food on families
To know how hard that was
He disassembled when he lied
To show what lying does
He then repeated everything
Once more, again, because

His tunnel had a little light
To indicate its end
His corners he could always turn
Around another bend
His long days journeyed into nights
And merged in twilight's blend

He lowered expectations so
No one would wonder why
He never could quite figure out
The color of the sky
In Middle Eastern lands where he
Had sent his troops to die

He swore to stand up foreign folks
Who never really fell
And teach them how to help him make
Their lives a living hell
So he could stall for time until
Some bought what he would sell

He set his feet in hard cement:
Resolved to win the day
Into the sand he drew a line
To indicate he'd stay
He brought his toes up to the line
Then towed the line away

He claimed to set no store upon
The tides that ebb and flow
Inconstant as the southern stars
He swore these did not show
His tipping points and dominoes
Capsizing in a row

He stood shoulder to shoulder with
His eyes upon the ball
Connecting dots arranged for him
With his own crayon scrawl
Neglecting only to inquire
The reason for it all

He had a wad to shoot and so
He gambled on a throw
With someone else's money
He had plenty more to blow
In spilling other people's blood
Where plenty more would flow

He thought he had some horses and
He thought he had some men
And so he doubled-down his bets
And threw the dice again
With someone else to pay the tab
He cared not where or when

He says that none should bother him
With details of their tasks
As long as they do what they did
He seldom ever asks
In his own delegated life's
Reflected glow he basks

Without a hint of irony
This oblong oval lout
Set out to make an omelet
With not the needed clout
And broke eggs by the dozens while
The promised meal hid out

So then he bought a chicken farm
And interviewed some cooks
And kept on breaking eggs so that
His friends could bake the books
Explaining absent omelets thus:
"It's better than it looks."

But after many years had passed
And hungry guests grew mean
At having paid for omelets that
No one had ever seen
The empty egg began to turn
A queasy shade of green

He wobbled up upon his wall
But claimed with stern resolve
That he had plans now guaranteed
To rotate and revolve
Around an omelet axis he
Would now proceed to solve

Yet still the eggs kept breaking and
No omelet came in view
And worse, the chickens now began
To catch a hawkish flu
Which turned them into doves grown tired
Of egg-white residue

In need of some new strategy
To mesmerize the mob
Lest in its wrath it turn on him
And pound him to a blob
He talked of trips to outer space
As Mankind's grandest job

Some robots on the planet Mars
Provoked "the vision thing":
A vaguely apprehended goal
About which bards might sing;
Some photo opportunities
Which campaign stunts might bring

But when Buck Rogers' bait and switch
Revealed no bucks in place
Some magic slogans soon appeared
To save buck-naked face
And three-day journeys to the moon
Became a glacier race

In idly mixing metaphors
As Orwell told us once
The disconnected mind reveals
The absence that it fronts
A vacuous veneer that fails
To mask the inner dunce

Abe Lincoln wrote a simple speech
Upon an envelope
His words ring down the ages now
So few, yet full of hope
But our own presidents speak noise
While after lies they grope

Once more the fascist octopus
Its own swan song has sung
Again into the melting pot
The jackboot has been flung
And Orwell's ghost spins in his grave
By more bad language stung

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2005