The bankrupt brainless blowhard beast defies
The reason to contest stupidity.
Grown fat and lazy on its loathsome lies,
The perpetrating predator feels free
To gorge upon the surface spoils of war:
Domestic profit far as eyes can see
Where foreign puppets groomed to play the whore
Return a portion of their greedy gains
To congressmen who leave us poor and sore,
While death upon a target people rains
And soldiers into pudding pounded are
By roadside bombs. How little now remains
Of them and us who suffer while we spar
Against the bogus baby made of tar.
Our new commander in his briefs has bought
The dreary drug of endless, pointless fights
And thus cannot discern the Truth he ought
That Quagmire in its sophistry delights
In making men of straw, red-herrings, too:
Those lifeless foes whose fragile feeble slights
Prove easy for the brain-dead to outdo;
A dialectic dodge that paints "extreme"
On any choices obvious and true,
Which leaves decision "centered" in a dream.
The feckless failures flail about and flop.
With each New Year they COIN a great new scheme.
We hear of "options" on the table top,
Just not the one to clearly think and stop.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2009