Some say that democracy is the best form of government,
And perhaps this form of governance should be the norm;
However, it can breed a storm from dorms to living rooms,
From kitchens to legislative halls that fall to self-interest;
And what happens, then, when government is truly an icon
Of the people governed, and becomes of cupboard of idiots?
When entertainers are pundits and tweets become so sweet
That they make daily news and kindle views from officials?
When pictures that should be trashed are brashly shown
In public buildings as art by the self-designated oh-so smart?
When unimportant issues call for tissue to wipe crying eyes?
When the rest of the world calls for the best, but the best
Are given a vest in lieu of the grave and are called to invest
In the circus as government becomes more like giant Argus?
What happens, I ask, when democracy becomes an idiocracy?
I say the Revolution is long over, and God Save the Queen!
Or . . .
Flesh and blood people
Underneath heaven’s steeple
See earthen cripples
Do we really see?
People are not really free
We just let it be . . .
Do we pass on by?
Whistle and look at the sky
As we say ‘goodbye’
They work in rice paddies and fields of corn,
Torn by thickets and briars, born to work;
They raise their families and face calamities
Without any formalities or plush royalties;
They write, fight for survival, nothing trite,
And give thanks for food and scant shelter
Amid the helter-skelter of life in this world;
Most are fair, generous, and pray prayers
While living from day to day,
And in no extraordinary way;
Most folk do not spend their time in pubs
And party hubs, drinking to intoxication
For some false elation and sex-sensation;
Most peoples in this harsh world are hurled
Into the fray of life by night,
Looking for the shining light
By which to fight their blight;
They’ve no time to stay ‘n play lurid games;
Their life demands they tame their beasts,
So bars and fancy cars are of least interest;
Tis the simplest joys ‘n beauty that attract,
Not the hubbub of expensive nightclubs —
Shadowy places devoid of any graces,
Dark dens filled with deviant grins —
Most men and women are not meanly vile,
Living in reduction to drunken seduction;
Most hearts strive for the better part of life,
Even life so very rife with pain ‘n suffering,
Buffering ills with the will to live and work,
And, yes, above all to love family ‘n friends;
Ah! Yes, these constitute the most of us,
Most of us on earth for what we are worth,
And in nothing to boast . . . just most of us
Just most of us
Yes, there are good folk who can’t get on their feet,
Or who march to a unique beat with nothing sweet
To offer to placate and satiate the voracious appetite
Of the normal world into which they’ve been hurled,
While ordinary people live their very ordinary lives
In the ordinary way from dreary day to dreary day
All to stay satisfied without change and no dismay,
But some people live risqué on the speedway of life
While others are more passé like an old screenplay,
And still others are more Wednesday than Friday,
But all in all they don’t quite fit in with the in-crowd,
Whether they are loud or quiet, shut-in or shut-up;
Though how do you judge what is normal, anyway?
Are there formal rules? Does anyone have a clue?
Or is “normal” just the setting on the clothes dryer?