Carl Sandburg, Updated
Policeman of the World,
War Maker, Stacker of Bodies,
Player with Drones and the Nation's Fear Monger
Pompous, yet Skittish, Officious and Unwelcoming,
City of the Cold Shoulder.
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen how you allow real leaders to be killed,
papering over the crimes with fabrications.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true. I have seen destructive financial flimflams go
unpunished and rewarded with bailouts, instead.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: Your
lawyers and lawmakers have told us that torture, endless
incarceration, and even wanton murder—as long as it is
done from the air—are all just fine.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at my adopted city, and I shrug my shoulders
and say to them:
You do everything that is required to get yourself elected
and come to our capital city and show me how you will
Growing ever larger with hotel-sized houses on former
farmland in distant suburbs, here is a giant sucker of blood,
blood drained from places where useful things used
to be made.
Feeling as sly as a privileged fox before an unguarded hen house,
Meddling, fumbling, meddling more,
Plotting, executing, covering-up,
Watching the dust clear, clearing the way for new criminal
ventures into dusty lands,
the realm by creating counterfeit insecurity,
Heedlessly plowing ahead, making and ignoring real
insecurity in every corner of the sucked-dry realm,
Huffing and puffing out a chest that conceals a shriveled up
and dying heart,
Coughing the hacking cough of moribund consumption,
of a sick old man raging against the dying of the light,
Uneasy in his skin, skulking and suspicious,
Looking over his shoulder for puppet-master approval,
Pompous, Skittish, Unwelcoming, half-ashamed to be
Policeman of the World, War Maker, Stacker of Bodies,
Player with Drones and Fear Monger for the Nation.