The Chaos Intact
Turn it on, watch the rolling farce
pass like ticker-tape once spewed
across a Rockefeller desk.
The robber-barons' hands never left
the levers of state, there has been
no prestidigitation or leger-de-main.
We many, we unhappy many, we band of suckers…
“The few are they and we are many
they have riches and we don’t have any!”
Shall we march with placards?
Tweet with indignation,
Unlike each and every post?
These are cakes and ale,
bread and circuses,
while the new Emperor
preens in his special clothes
and the usurers lead us by our nose.
The loon with the hair of candy floss
spouts ideas of spun sugar
as likely to survive the rain
as any cursory scrutiny.
A gimcrack government of bile and bluster,
peopled entirely with little MEN,
the distaff voice is barely heard
except in the tawdry tokenism
of our darling bud in May.
You few, you unhappy few, you band of mothers…
“The few are we and they are many:
they have power and we don’t have any!”
The march of crime has replaced
the march of dimes in the east,
toy soldiers in their hordes are
directed by the child-man tyrant,
re-enacting Leni’s films for
the greatest personality cult
outside reality television
and the rotted Branch in Waco.
The bombs provoke bombardments,
the guns – panicked rearmament.
Angst begat fear begat terror
terror begat war begat horror.
On and on and on and on.
Until we leap off the straight and narrow;
become the very thing we hate,
giving up all resistance,
to leave the chaos intact.