Prediction of a past that none have noticed.
Forecasting failure, calling it "success."
Its chance of proving true, not the remotest.
In fact a flabby, incoherent mess.
Our owners wish to realize their visions,
As if belief alone makes dreams come true;
But fraud as policy makes bad decisions,
No matter that they lie till we turn blue.
Yet lying in high places wrecks the nation
As "military" budgets loot the till,
Engendering depression and inflation
While urging proxi Slavs to die and kill.
They revel in their jaded jubilation.
The slightest hint of rumor sets them off.
They practice premature ejaculation.
At facts and evidence they sneer and scoff.
The "turmoil" in their toilet bowls they tell you
Means slaughter in some soup they say they see.
No matter what Reality befell you,
They shout: "Look over there behind that tree!"
Whenever they screw up, "The Russians did it!"
Whatever crime, shout "Vladimir's to blame!"
If workers need a raise, simply forbid it.
If soldiers want to live, them you must shame.
The Waste, as we may call ourselves, have blown it.
We really ought to spare the World more pain.
Time now to face what we have done and own it,
And flush our self-made "turmoil" down the drain.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2023