Duped by a Dimwit
(From The Triumph of Strife: an homage to Dante Alighieri and Percy Shelley)

The weeping wimps whine woefully while weak
Triangulating tearfully in tune
With twisted tongues too tied to scarcely speak

A mournful mid-range melody they croon
Between the altos and the baritones
Their principles, politely parsed, they prune

While kept consultants dial their telephones
And focus groups of undecided meat
Reveal ambivalent collective clones

With pulse too faint to register a beat
Too dead above the neck to question why
Too dead below the waist to feel much heat

They nightly sit before the empty eye
And somehow can’t resist the urge to buy

Halfway around the world confusion reigns
While back at home the dismal dunces dance
Too pooped to ponder proper planning’s pains

Or even give the dead a passing glance
Absorbed in what they fear for their own stash
They swoop and swirl and loop and twirl and prance

While chasing madly after mounds of cash
To pay for practiced readings of their prose
They choose to look away while armies clash

Disclaiming any need to notice those
Much like the ostrich see-no-evil theme
They safely rest reclining in repose

And count up all the profits from their scheme:
A damned disgraceful drugged and dreadful dream