fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
there's nothing that can match the longest fall
it seems to last for hours then the ground hits
you lose the skill to walk you cannot crawl
what's left now of your vaunted sharpish wits
when you're down there not knowing how or why
you know you're not allowed to moan or cry

to be a man means you can't acknowledge pain
you tough it out you keep your smiling face
you musn't show even the smallest strain
you've got to represent both style and grace
the thing that you must show is merest skill
behind it has to lurk a more than iron will

it cannot matter that your heart's been broken
what you must show is nothing but the brave
you aren't allowed the merest tiny token
there's nothing here you'll be allowed to save
what happens when you move at a pace slow
enough for comment is that there'll be a row

the mask that you have can't simply command
it must show kindness warmth that sort of thing
it must hide it must smother the harsh demand
your voice must have the proper noble ring
you musn't let your voice or speech be tragic
your job here is to persuade us all there's magic

when light appears you've got to shrug it off
as just the normal day the ordinary change
you have to master the dismissive cough
you've got to give your scorn the proper range
as you peer out from beneath the hanging eaves
you must not comment on the fresh new leaves

what you've to say here must not be too loud
still you've got to present it as simple fact
your attitude should never be quite proud
you should seem master of restraint and tact
your job is to produce the proper patter
as for the rest it does not ever matter
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
We've come up with a standard answer
when any of our crimes are brought in view,
it spreads throughout the nation like a cancer,
it covers every briefing like the dew,
we use it with the skill of a great dancer:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'

We're pushed and prodded to admit our crimes,
we're asked and asked exactly what we knew
and when we knew it, we abhor such times,
we liked it when hard questions came but few.
Meanwhile, our spokesman, like a slug just slimes:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'

The priest who blesses at the sacred grove
answers most quickly when we there halloo;
he looks remarkably like one Karl Rove,
past master both of lies and ballyhoo.
He bellows until he's turning almost mauve:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'


fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

March 2015

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