What the Fuss Is All About
By W. D. Ehrhart
One wonders what the fuss is all about.
They say the flag is blowing in the wind.
They say the wind is blowing up a storm.
They say the moon is blue, the lies are true,
the bogeyman is here, we must believe
whatever we are told. So all for one
and one for all the money he can get
his sticky fingers on, him and all his
sticky-fingered friends. So what's new?
Just the other day, K Street three-piece-suit
walks into a bar and orders a beer.
Sorry, sir, the barkeep says, we don't serve
sleaze in here; FBI man overhears,
calls the IRS: barkeep's doing time
in Lewisburg. Let that be a lesson
to us all: Miller Lite can change your life.
Super Size me, praise the Lord, and give me
purple mountains' majesty, Hollywood
commandos, and a gas-guzzling SUV
with GPS and Power Everything.
Burn, baby, burn, some angry Black man said,
but I say what's the hurry? Soon enough
we'll burn the whole damned planet down, choke it,
strip it, starve it, melt it, pave it over,
blow it up, and bury it in empty
bottled water bottles, Pampers diapers,
plastic grocery bags, and last year's cellphones.
Then we'll see which way the wind is blowing,
whose flags are blowing in the wind, whose lies
are worth a big rat's ass, who's rich enough
to buy a one-way ticket out of Hell,
whose God is on whose side, and who's left
to wonder what the fuss was all about.
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