From "The Poor Man" Poetry corner by Phoenican:
Turning and turning in the parking lot
The driver cannot steer the Lexus;
The Left falls apart; the Centre cannot hold;
Mere Rightism is loosed upon the wheel,
The brain-dimmed metaphor is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of intelligence is drowned;
The best lack all publication, while the worst
Are full of verbose columnisity.
Surely some deadline is at hand;
Surely the Great Comparison is at hand.
The Great Comparison! Hardly are those words thought
When a vast surge out of my gall and stomach
Troubles my gorge: somewhere on a computer screen,
A piece with a hollow body and the head of a dodo,
A jeremiad blank and witless as the moon,
Is plonking its slow phrases, while all about it
Reel shadows of the reality-based community.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of hard-won reason
Are vexed to nightmare by inane business-babble,
And what rough screed, its hour come round at last,
Witters towards Washington to be read?
(apologies to WB)
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