Good morning, friend! It’s been several weeks
since last I took up my pen.
We’ve kept our tongues rolled up in our cheeks,
our wit fast asleep in our ken.
We’ve been camping out in old Cathay
and learning whatever we might
from that largest race of inspirited clay
we owe to Eden’s flight.
And trust me, we’ve got a lot to learn,
which is why I’ve rested awhile.
This reputation we constantly earn
suits well our manner and style.
We Yankees think that we own all we sniff,
for we’re spoiled and infantile.
We boast to the rest of the world as if
we irrigated the Nile
and amended Hammurabi’s code
while having Europa uncrowned,
then stood in line to see Pompeii explode
as Chinese feet were unbound
by Uncle Sam on a blazing horse
who sent packing those grim Manchus.
Then Manifest Destiny took its course
through celluloid and fake news.
Yes, Chinese history’s got it all –
big successes, bigger mistakes.
For grandeur it’s got the greatest wall;
for misery, crippling earthquakes.
But a page in that dynastic book
last night was dull and annoying,
so this morning I thought I’d take a look
at things I’d been avoiding.
Sure enough, I find the Orange Fiend
is spouting at the mouth with foam,
denying his unpopularity, gleaned
from Singapore to Rome.
“An executive order from this chair
will stump and block the pollster.”
Thus saith the man whom Stephen Colbert
has dubbed V. Putin’s cockholster.