Where would one locate the lunatic fringe?
On what does this term of opprobrium hinge?
I speak of those people who lack the ability
To do anything for their pure gullibility;
Whatever tale anyone might conceive
These credulous cream puffs would no doubt believe.
They'd believe that a bullet could change its direction,
As if from a magical mid-air deflection,
And a fighting young leatherneck PFC
Could teach himself Russian and travel for free,
And then when the time came, believe it or not,
He'd pull off a motiveless, murderous plot.
They'd believe that the law is the sort of profession
In which criticism can foster depression,
Depression so deep that an upstanding man
Would cut his life short with his very own hand;
He'd take his last drive, just as slick as you please,
Without even using his motor car keys.
They'd swallow a story, and be none the wiser,
Of a powerful bomb made of farm fertilizer;
Lacking the long unused skill of deduction,
They can't see how unlikely is the destruction;
Unable to reach firm conclusions and hold them.
They're ripe to believe anything that is told them.
The pity's that few have the slightest conception
Of the insidiousness of the deception;
We're not so much governed as arrantly ruled
By those who regard us as dupes to be fooled,
We'll never get out of this terrible fix
Until we see who are the real lunatics.