…And a little churl shall lead them Dept.

Of Kos We Can*

Oh! The voice from the Left ain’t conceptually deft,
This is certain from years of close reading.
'In the way' by design, with no plan to refine
A gross self-centered crave to be leading.
But it's hard to be great when your dogma breeds hate,
And your econ. just plunders your masses;
When your ethos is guilt, in an edifice built
On an outlook through woes colored glasses.
Still, the morally wan
And the spiritually bent
Will attend your salon,
Nay, they'll flock to your tent!
For an outlook through woes colored glasses.

One unfortunate lad philosophically clad
In this raiment of pragmatist nonsense,
Had an unbalanced itch to improve a bad pitch
Pushing less-than-empirical contents.
To a guru, he'd heard, they would flock for The Word
(An approach he has filched from religions)
So he makes in the 'Sphere, with disdain and a sneer,
A big name for himself feeding pigeons.
He just scatters his crumbs
As they land on the walk.
And, with sizeable sums
That he pulls from this flock,
Comes a name for himself feeding pigeons.

Now the pigeon's a fowl not polite like the owl,
With a shortage of brains that depresses.
And, like street-swarming mobs of collectivist snobs,
Often circles in groups and makes messes.
In appraising his 'troots, this analogy suits
The big scene on the screen where they’re flocking;
As the coop-master piques, comes a flashing of beaks
And the rate that they gobble is shocking.
For our pigeon’s a tool
And a mark and a dupe,
Like an avian fool
With the mind of a group,
And the prate that they gobble is shocking.

...While the dapper Old Guard (both the smoking and charred)
Live in sweat as their sway is declining,
Since they've peddled as news faintly prejudiced views
With their 'scoops' and their polls heterodyning.
Now they're shocked at the whore who, unkempt, at the door
Has been summoned by standards invidious,
For, as Gresham embraced, when the coin is debased
The replacement is something more hideous.
There are one or two rules
(Half a dozen's my take)
Whence good ethicist schools
Will predict, if you break;
The replacement is ever more hideous.

Was it Dewey or Skinner, or some modern spinner
Who filled Lefty’s head with commotion;
That a fact isn't real, it's an urge that you feel,
And historical sweep is mere notion.
Which brings us back 'round to where pigeons abound,
And the whiff of decay wafts among us;
Where the rot is most grim you find people like him,
It's the natural function of fungus.
For the morally wan,
And the spiritually bent
Are predictable spawn
Of a rotting ferment.
It’s the natural function of fungus.

   posted by Stephen at 7:32 AM | Plink