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The utter incompetence of the U.N. is literally incomprehensible.

quote by Malcolm Wallop
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Gareth And Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Course of Time. Book I.

Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom
All things seem as they are; thou who of old
The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw,
While heavy sleep fell down on other men,
In holy vision tranced, the future pass
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned
Burdens that made the pagan mountains shake,
And Zion's cedars bow—inspire my song;
My eye unscale; me what is substance teach,
And shadow what, while I of things to come,
As past rehearsing, sing the Course of Time,
The second Birth, and final Doom of man.
The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not; such
A strain befits not argument so high.
Me thought, and phrase, severely sifting out
The whole idea, grant—uttering as 'tis
The essential truth—Time gone, the Righteous saved,
The Wicked damned, and Providence approved.
Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach
To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes
Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure
As those of sainted bards, and angels sung,
Which wake the echoes of eternity—
That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise
Instructed listen, of ages yet to come.
Long was the day, so long expected, past
Of the eternal doom, that gave to each
Of all the human race his due reward.
The sun—earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had ceased
To number seasons, days, and months, and years
To mortal man: hope was forgotten, and fear;
And Time, with all its chance and change, and smiles,
And frequent tears, and deeds of villany,
Or righteousness—once talked of much, as things
Of great renown, was now but ill remembered;
In dim and shadowy vision of the past,
Seen far remote, as country, which has left
The traveller's speedy step, retiring back
From morn till even: and long, eternity
Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years
Men had grown old: the saints, all home returned
From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long
Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt
The stream of life; and long, alas, how long!
To them it seemed, the wicked who refused
To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark
Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pollok
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Incompetence

There is nothing more unattractive than incompetence
Naivety falls in the face of experience,
Ignorance is beaten by education,
Even idiocy can be overcome with patience.
But incompetence,
Incompetence is when confident blind belief meets abilities harsh reality
And we stupidly just keep on trying any way.

poem by Colm Hayes
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The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Greek #3

Some notes on how to pronounce certain things:
I, ei, y = pronounced like ee or ea, e.g., feel, read, etc.
Ou= pronounced like oo, e.g., fool
Mono dyo tragoudia eho kai trito molis vgei
De ksero pou vrika to ptoma mia kai tote itan ekei
Tora periplanomai ston tafo tis mousikis
Gia ta dyo tragoudia kai to trito molis vgei
Enas plousios mou eipe fere kota kai zoumi
Ftohopaido mou eipe pos de mporei na pei
Kai tora perimeno san kota to theo epi ti ghi
Mono dyo tragoudia eho kai trito molis vgei
De ksero pou vrika to ptoma mia kai tote itan ekei
Tora periplanomai ston tafo tis mousikis
Gia ta dyo tragoudia kai to trito molis vgei
Piga sto lefko iko kai rotao ton pyravlo
An pote den eixe complex I kati san afto
Ma arxise na paramilaei sa na itan stin tv
Den exo mono dyo tragoudia
Apo mena thelis ti?
Kainouri agorasa stena blue jeans
Kai ena baglama
Kai eipa stis kyries na mou ferthoun evgenika
Gia na min exo typseis pos den pao makria
Gia ta dyo tragoudia kai to trito molis vgei
Heres a direct retranslation of greek#3 from greek back to english. some people thought itd be fun to read. the english of course is not correct, but I translated it literally. in greek too, s
Hings sound weird. like, the expression with the chicken and juice. never heard it before!
I just have two songs and a third one when it comes out*
I dont know where I found the body** since then it was there
Now Im wandering around musics grave
For the two songs and the third one when it comes out
A rich guy told me bring a chicken and juice (!)
A poor guy told me that he cant tell
And now Im waiting like a chicken for God on earth
I just have two songs and a third one when it comes out
I dont know where I found the body since it was there then
Now Im wandering around musics grave
For the two songs and the third one when it comes out
I went to the white house and asked the rocket (!)
If he ever had a complex or something of the sort
But he started babbling like he as on tv
I dont have just two songs
What do you want from me?
I bought some new, tight bluejeans
And a baglama***
And I told the ladies to be nice to me
So that I wont feel guilty for not going far
For the two songs and the third one when it comes out
* literally as soon as but it would be too long
** literally dead body, cadaver
*** a very tiny traditional greek guitar-like instrument, a tiny bouzouki

song performed by They Might Be Giants
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Endymion: Book IV

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;--
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
"Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:--nor can I now--so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.----

"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air--let me but die at home."

Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.

"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet

[...] Read more

poem by John Keats
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Firebreak

Moseying in the skin of your complacence
I build an ornate heraldry of sycamores
With carnal lattices to fringe the eaves
But no vulture dares to crane and sing,
No quasar halt to pry and beam,
No burl stopped from lewdly skewing
Deeper and deeper, you are penetrating.

You amble sprightly, sagaciously, innocuously
Caroming into the maze gracefully
I was weighed to kneeling with a plea
And a silent cry for a trespassing treachery
But gravity opposed the resistance
And the sycamores flounced wistfully
My forest sprouted the ripped wings
And the castrated prongs in the foliage
Of dying moss and buried memories

Uttering the melody of a gamine
That mounts walls for a dream
To stir past the concatenations
And gnarls between you and me,
Utter a fastidious wisp of infinity
And dispense the momentum
To a ballasting defeat
In the lips of a famished fleet
Utter the ignorant sensation
Of emollient crevasses yawning
Swiftly eviscerating somnolence,
Utter
Brand new visions,
Utter
Desiccating illusions.

Scathe the fuel-bathed forest
And start a fire of black scorches
And charred parcels of melodies,
Instigate a fire to meet me
Burning in a pyre reticently
Draping my scarce body in crimson
Until a firebreak splice
This delusional aberration.

poem by Norman Santos
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Lycus the Centaur

FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUS

(The Argument: Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorceress. Circe gives her an incantation to pronounce, which should turn Lycus into a horse; but the horrible effect of the charm causing her to break off in the midst, he becomes a Centaur).

Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell
To wander, fore-doomed, in that circle of hell
Where Witchery works with her will like a god,
Works more than the wonders of time at a nod,—
At a word,—at a touch,—at a flash of the eye,
But each form is a cheat, and each sound is a lie,
Things born of a wish—to endure for a thought,
Or last for long ages—to vanish to nought,
Or put on new semblance? O Jove, I had given
The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven,
And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether
They kept the world's birthday and brighten'd together!
For I loved them in terror, and constantly dreaded
That the earth where I trod, and the cave where I bedded,
The face I might dote on, should live out the lease
Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease:
And I gave me to slumber, as if from one dream
To another—each horrid,—and drank of the stream
Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quaff'd
Swift poison, and never should breathe from the draught,—
Such drink as her own monarch husband drain'd up
When he pledged her, and Fate closed his eyes in the cup.
And I pluck'd of the fruit with held breath, and a fear
That the branch would start back and scream out in my ear;
For once, at my suppering, I plucked in the dusk
An apple, juice-gushing and fragrant of musk;
But by daylight my fingers were crimson'd with gore,
And the half-eaten fragment was flesh at the core;
And once—only once—for the love of its blush,
I broke a bloom bough, but there came such a gush
On my hand, that it fainted away in weak fright,
While the leaf-hidden woodpecker shriek'd at the sight;
And oh! such an agony thrill'd in that note,
That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat,
As it long'd to be free of a body whose hand
Was doom'd to work torments a Fury had plann'd!

There I stood without stir, yet how willing to flee,
As if rooted and horror-turn'd into a tree,—
Oh! for innocent death,—and to suddenly win it,
I drank of the stream, but no poison was in it;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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It is incomprehensible that God should exist, and it is incomprehensible that he should not exist.

quote by Blaise Pascal
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Forever Christmas Eve

Its something so magical, incomprehensible
Yet its so sensible, this you and me
The snow on the street outside that catches the blue moonlight
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Sparks from a midnight flame, the giggle of french champagne
A kiss sends about half way to fantasy
Wait mister brand new year, why cant we stay right here
Oh, how I wish it could be
Forever christmas eve
A distant bell is ringing out across the winter land
Its singing out a song of things to come
And though this kind of holiday is not what we had planned
Its wonderful tonight
Its something so magical, incomprehensible
Yet its so sensible, this you and me
The snow on the street outside that catches the blue moonlight
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Sparks from a midnight flame, the giggle of french champagne
A kiss sends about half way to fantasy
Wait mister brand new year, why cant we stay right here
Oh, how I wish it could be
Forever christmas eve
Wait mister brand new year, spare us a little cheer
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Forever christmas eve

song performed by Lee Ann Womack
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Song Of The Open Road

AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.

The earth--that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them. 10

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;
I carry them, men and women--I carry them with me wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.)

You road I enter upon and look around! I believe you are not all that
is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the
illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the
drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping
couple, 20
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the
town, the return back from the town,
They pass--I also pass--anything passes--none can be interdicted;
None but are accepted--none but are dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them
shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I think you are latent with unseen existences--you are so dear to me.

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides!
you distant ships! 30
You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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Jumped Out Of Nothing

Jumped out of nothing. The fish did. Golden.
A flake of the moon. When I wasn't looking.
Into a lifeboat cupping something precious in its hands.

The mind an old junkyard that's been collecting windows too long.
So many points of view. So many glass eyes
looking for the stuffed animals they belong to.

Death after knowledge. The silence that follows the music
after the bird has flown. Is the abyss death's rebuke
of life's dangerous proposal to let us look through the keyhole

at what's going on in the uninhabitable room next door?
To dream a little in the interim between two enormities
abstracted from the need of our perishing to persist

aeonic light years beyond anything we can imagine?
The golden fish jumps into the boat like an unsought insight.
No hook in it. And you can tell by the scales of light it emanates

it's risen from the starless darkness of its own depths
like moonrise out of the encyclopedic corals
of accumulated knowledge that's found a place for everything

like a polyp on a library shelf, calcium in a cave
shaping itself into temples from the top down.
Stalagmites and stalactites of cathedrals inspired by water

to enshrine themselves in form as an aid to the blind.
Though things along the way might change
does the journey stay the same ad infinitum?

Did you amount to everything you dreamed you might be,
or were there more stairs to climb than doors to enter,
more walls than windows in the way you saw things?

I've seen the most sublime things humbled by their own insignificance.
And I think I've heard God more than once
weeping at the stern of a sinking ship for a turn of events

she couldn't do anything about once they were set in motion.
And I've listened to people my whole life
talking in their sleep about how to put a rudder on a dream

as if there were a focus and a direction for life to flow in
like a solid, particulate thing instead of the wandering wavelength
of this exiled mirage of water that it appears to be

depending on the mood of the chameleonic mirror you're looking into.
The donkey looks into the well and the well looks back at the donkey.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Mad You Must Be And Delight In It

Mad you must be and delight in it
like mating killdeer in the spring,
lyrical love-making in the epiphanous air
and one flys into the bumper and dies.
Tears flowing down your cheeks
as you drive on into the incomprehensible
horror and silence of the act. And later,
your girlfriend will elaborate the fact
into a beautiful piece of art. Radiance
thrusts a shard of glass through your heart
out of the blue and there you are
with a baffled pain in your eyes
crying on the easel in paint. Poor man.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Revel in the absurd. Logic, the shakey stool
of a man trying to hang himself.
Quicksand cornerstones sinking into a miasma
of conditioned chaos. What does it prove
that would have made a difference to the outcome?
Nothing to stand on anymore. Even less
to lie down for. Nature a postcard.
A recurring calendar. And one of those months,
a close-up of a killdeer in intimate detail.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Uproot your hidden harmonies. Give up
your golden chains. Throw the swill
out of your fountains like wine
from the night before. Ignore your dreams
as the phantasmagoria of sacred clowns.
Everything passes in a riot of stars
before you're aware of it. Where are they now?
The aerial ballet of the killdeer. Roadkill.
Random encounters with the irrational.
The clarity cruel. The darkness immense.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Stare at the wall until something appears.
An orphan of mirrors. An estranged elopement
trying to get away with it all. Throw
the moon down from the tower first
and after it your skull. The hearse awaits
and the horses are plumed with black feathers.
Space is warped. Time's corrupt. And the light
isn't on some kind of goodwill tour.
Over the newly ploughed field,
where are the killdeer that were there
a moment ago, a year, forever, a figment of time?
So beautiful in the way they impressed each other.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Cheesing In Broad Daylight

Speculated incompetence,
Seems to be riddled...
With proven ability.

And those spectating,
With expectations of defeat.
Appear to be more familiar with it.
Than the one standing tall,
On two grounded feet.

Speculated incompetence,
Seems to be riddled...
With proven ability.

To leave those scattering aound like mice,
Seeking the comfort of their darkened holes...
Rushing to get away from the exposure imposed,
From the embarrassment of 'cheesing' in broad daylight.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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WHERE Is The Common Sense?

If there were degrees awarded,
For those earning diplomas in 'Incompetence'...
Few would question its existence.
It would be an established acknowledgement.

And since incompetence does exist,
WHERE is the common sense?
And at whose expense are those with degrees,
Trying to convince they now have achieved it!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hook In Mouth

A cockroach in the concrete, courthouse tan and beady eyes.
A slouch with fallen arches, purging truths into great lies.
A little man with a big eraser, changing history
Procedures that hes programmed to, all he hears and sees.
Altering the facts and figures, events and every issue.
Make a person disappear, and no one will ever miss you.
Rewrites every story, every poem that ever was.
Eliminates incompetence, and those who break the laws.
Follow the instructions of the new ways evil book of rules.
Replacing rights with wrongs, the files and records in the schools.
You say youve got the answers, well who asked you anyway?
Ever think maybe it was meant to be this way?
Dont try to fool us, we know the worst is yet to come.
I believe my kingdom will come.
Chorus
F is for fighting, r is for red,
Ancestors blood in battles theyve shed.
E, we elect them, e, we eject them,
In the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
D, for your dying, o, your overture,
M, they will cover your grave with manure.
This spells out freedom, it means nothing to me,
As long as theres a p.m.r.c.
F is for fighting, r is for red,
Ancestors blood in battles theyve shed.
E, we elect them, e, we eject them,
In the land of the free and the home of the brave.
D, for your dying, o, your overture,
M is for money and you know what that cures.
This spells out freedom, it means nothing to me,
As long as theres a p.m.r.c.
Put your hand right up my shirt,
Pull the strings that make me work,
Jaws will part, words fall out,
Like a fish with hook in mouth.
Rewrites every story, every poem that ever was.
Eliminates incompetence, and those who break the laws.
Follow the instructions of the new ways evil book of rules.
Replacing rights with wrongs, the files and records in the schools.
Im not a fish
Im a man

song performed by Megadeth
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Anything To Please The 'Little Guy

The agenda to enhance incompetence grows.
So angry are those spoiled,
They seem to be in overdrive to expose...
The least qualified among them,
To represent their needs.

So foolish are their decisions made.
Anything but reality...
Is what they aim to feed and please.

Today a mockery of intelligence,
Sits opposed by those inexperienced.
And money to support these tumbleweeds...
Is increasingly coming from the ones elite!

The agenda to enhance incompetence grows.
So angry are those spoiled,
They seem to be in overdrive to expose...
The least qualified among them,
To represent their needs.

And so foolish are their decisions made.
Anything but reality...
Is what they aim to feed and please.

'Would you slice my 'Rye'
Before the caviar is placed.
And would you be sure the use of fine china...
Is presented as plated,
With white wine to taste.'

~Sorry to disappoint.
In 'this' shelter...
You get one cot, a blanket,
And a bowl of soup.~

'May I inquire if any of it,
Is 'organic'? '

~You betcha.
Anything to please the 'little guy'!
We are only here,
To inflict and represent 'your' needs.~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Exposing Any Of That Makes Them Upset

How many opportunities should be given,
To those who are clearly incompetent?

'Are they liked and impressively dressed? '

Well...
Yes.

'Do they appear to be dim of wit.
And protected by others who prefer them best? '

Well..
Yes.
Of course.

'Accept their incompetence.
What else should you expect.
A respect for intelligence,
You have yet from them to get?

Stop deluding yourself with reality.
Where has that ever been seen to be detected?
Accept their incompetence.
Forget any signs of intelligence.

Exposing any of that makes them upset.
If not diminished into a novelty...
To diffuse its seriousness.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Slow To Self Detect

They are doing their best to see him defeated.
He does not represent,
Their interests with intention seen that's meant.
Nor has he given them any attention sent.

And with the lack of his wisdom,
As their guide...
They will witness their own demise,
To no one's surprise.
Those who can separate the ignorant from the wise.

Since in their eyes they find themselves,
Uncontested and bitterly incensed.
Although their madness has been slow to self detect.
A consciousness absent...
Of a common sense witnessed that is in effect.
With an incompetence effective as incompetence can get,
And stirred by a rowdy madcowed crowd.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Too Over Qualified

Look!
Simply put.
We are needing today,
To stop making reference to brilliance...
Power, strength and entitlements.
We need someone immediately,
That can masquerade an image of toughness.
All that brilliant stuff,
Did absolutely nothing to cover our incompetence.
We have become the laughing stock of our neighbors.

And frankly,
We have no one to date...
That can successfully charade this symbolic idol.
Although many adore our present leader,
He is making us all look like fools.
Even our objections to his correctness,
Has others mocking us better than any Shakespeare play.

Look!
Simply put.
We are needing today,
To stop making reference to brilliance...
Power, strength and entitlements.
We need someone immediately,
That can masquerade an image of toughness.
All that brilliant stuff,
Did absolutely nothing to cover our incompetence.
We have become the laughing stock of our neighbors.

Who else is out there we can blame,
Without exposing too much more of our own ignorance?
We need someone who can text, dance, rap...
Easy on the eye, drinks beer and can play basketball.

'Sir? '

What is it?

'Sir,
That's the leader we already have.
Are you saying he is too over qualified?
And we are the ones in need of getting our acts together? '

If my grandfather was alive,
He'd have the answer.

'Oh.
Your grandfather Moonshine Johnny? '

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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