The warming of the globe has now let slip
The icebergs floating like gigantic glass
Unmarked by those who steer the sinking ship
Into a scarcely hidden sunken mass
And then proceed to rearrange the chairs
Upon the sloping decks while moments pass
Unprofitably wasted splitting hairs
As to the nature of the life to come
When someone else will manage state affairs
With something like professional aplomb
Instead of like the Keystone Cops we’ve got
Who make a fortune out of acting dumb
Upon our country’s name a bumbling blot:
This reign of rubes too raw to rue their rot.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2006-2010