Boobie Vindication by the Venal
(from Fernando Po, U.S.A., America's post-literate retreat to Plato's Cave)

The Boobies of the U.S.A.
Have done it once again
They’ve ginned up lies to fool themselves
And wasted many men
-- And women, too – and all because
They cannot count to ten

In fact, they cannot count at all
As we recall they said
That this war wouldn’t last six weeks
Yet four long years have fled
And left them mouthing adjectives
Like “more” and “long” instead

But even more astonishing:
They’ve figured out a way
To pass the buck in circles so
The liars still can play;
So Boobies stained by perfidy
Can lie another day

Their theory: in some future time
Someone will come along
To spout the words “We have prevailed”
Which then will end the song
With claims of “victory” by those
Who’ve always got it wrong

The Boobies simply can’t recall
That four long years ago
They heard those words, “We have prevailed”
From George who wouldn’t know
“Prevarication” from “prevailed”:
The sand he sells as snow

We hear it said at times that those
Who fight and die in war
Wish for the mayhem to go on
Exactly as before;
That blood flushed down the drain demands
That others bleed still more

Some say they hear dead friends demand
More death as weird amends
For useless squandering of life
In war that never ends
Yet who acquainted with such swill
Would call its drinkers friends?

But dupes of statesmen treacherous
And tools of conquerors
Vain fools who swallow bogus lies
From those who think them whores
(No better than the Temps who cook
Their food and sweep their floors)

You cannot do a wrong thing right
But still the wrong will try
And claim at each new failure that
More people have to die
As "vindication" for the ones
Who suffered for a lie

But lies by definition have
No truth on which to build
But only lead straight down the slope
To get more people killed
And not the promised cakewalk romp
Originally billed

Still those invested in the lie
Somehow cannot confront
The awful fact that they have been
Bamboozled by a runt
Who ran a "dive" on fourth-and-long
When smarter teams would punt

Commanded by an empty suit
Whom they have sworn to serve
The Boobies cannot change their course
And from disaster swerve
Lest armchair fanboy fascists wail
And claim they have no nerve

The "good fight," so it’s called, we know
Means ruining two lands
Both ours and theirs to stimulate
Pubescent hormone glands
And sinews on some scrawny arms
As strong as rubber bands

Another name for what we know
As just the same deceit
This promised "victory" will come
As just one more defeat
As undisguised and noisome as
The crap some now repeat:

That if sufficient numbers die
That makes the lie come true
And if you balk at nonsense then
The blame belongs on you
And not the liars who conspire
To bleed the country blue

In six months, or "a Friedman," we
Will surely turn the tide
But going on nine "Friedman's" now
We've only more who've died
And still another general
Says we have not yet tried

You have to wonder, after all,
Why four years must ensue
Before our generals admit
They haven't got a clue
With learning curves that flat you'd think
The people ought to sue

And close down the academies,
War colleges and such
For having no curricula
That teaches very much;
Whose students need Jane Fonda as
Their alibi and crutch

And all those “fucking hippies” with
The flowers in their hair
Pose such a threat to fascists that
That the cops pollute the air
With tear gas while they beat folk to
Discourage thinking rare

Again, we hear that soldiers dead
Want yet more wasted life
Until such time as we "prevail"
In our elected strife
And have ourselves a swell parade
With bugle, drum, and fife

A "victory," we hear, would make
It all turn out O.K.
But absent such a "win"
We've got to fight another day
And still another after that
Until some judgment day

But judgment seems to just recede
As those who fail eschew
Establishing some "metrics" that
Would show the pooch they screw
Revealing them as nincompoops
With brains too bloody few

You see, the "thinking" goes like this:
That "honor" comes from "wins";
That he whose service "loses" gains
No honor from his sins
But he who "wins," upon his chest
A shiny medal pins

For trinkets such as these, some say,
More billions we must blow
As if we haven’t better use
For seeds that we should sow:
Our vanishing resources now
As scarce as hens that crow

But eating seed corn seems the way
For those who do not farm
But only dine on war’s rewards
And never come to harm
For whom the brass will step and fetch
And any thought disarm

But some of us who served before
Want none of this demise:
A sequel to a tragic farce
That needs no new reprise
To keep the fools employed who need
Some cutting down to size

For all their bloody bungling they
Need downsizing, and quick
Enough of all their bullshit and
Excuses lame and sick!
They’ve proven that in decades now
They haven’t thought a lick

A lack of any evidence
They simply can’t refuse
They call it “cherry picking” when
It’s lemons that they choose
The longer that we let them “lead”
The more for us they’ll lose

They only know to stall for time
Till miracles take place
Or someone else assumes the blame
For fascists who’ve lost face:
They hope we’ll drink their Kool-Aid and
All memory erase

But vindication never comes
From Boobie types who’ve bet
The nation’s wad on loaded dice
And haven’t won once yet
Dishonor only will they earn
Who reap what they beget

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2007