Where, pray tell, are Gilbert and Sullivan
When we need them? Surely, the Mikado,
Lord High Executioner, their henchmen,
Could better guide this land’s limp bravado.
American exceptionalism
Has, once again, presumed too goddamn far.
Syria writhes into brutal schism
And we write rules? That goes beyond bizarre.
Whence comes our jaunty swagger, arrogance?
Our shining city on a hill nonsense?
Our comic opera madhouse foolish dance?
How could we be so futile and so dense?
Another comic opera, dafter,
Might end with folks happy ever after.
II
For pity’s sake, where do we get the gall
To order Syrians around? “Red lines
Exist, you crossed, and we are quite appalled!
We’re gonna blast you for your monkeyshines!”
The problem is we don’t know what to do—
Where to aim our righteous moral arrow.
We look and listen, hoping for a cue,
Mumbling that “our action will be narrow.”
The plain truth is there are no good guys here.
If we depose the present brute, and curse
His government, should we not pause and fear
That rebel triumph puts in place much worse?
We’ve armed the world’s comedians—they mock—
While we become a global laughing stock.
(9/4/13)