by William Skink
he’s a very stable genius
from a very stable clan
with stable people helping
the stable hidden hand
Amerika, a stable nation
enjoys its stable home
bought with stable wages
on borrowed, stable loans
a stable media agrees
and feeds our stable wants
to please their stable owners
and keep their stable jobs
our stable future awaits
to fulfill our stable plans
of stable global control
over stable global lands
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?-W. B. Yeats (1920)
A poetically stable assessment. BTW, Swede, that rough beast has blond hair.
You must mean orange hair.
You must mean orange hair
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Washington swamp that day,
The score was 0-50 with no fake news scandals left to play.
And so when Cohen went to jail, and McCabe turned out to be lame,
A sickly feeling spread among the players of the game.
They thought if only Mueller, could get a whack at Trump, he would take
his report and knock him cold with just one single thump.
Excellent poem, Skink. Thank-you.