The world goes from bad to worse,
And is it time to rent a hearse?
Or shall we ride the merry-go-round,
And let it take us up and down?
And shall we fear the screaming ducks?
Who watch us use their firetrucks?
To put out fires that they have set,
In swimming pools that should be wet?
Or should we run on small bare feet?
And hide ourselves in fields of wheat?
To quake and shake in our underwear,
At every passing Russian bear?,
We are not on an island
And we are not alone in the sand.
Coconut cream pie is tasty,
But nothing but that is hasty,
And living on hasty ain’t grand,
And deprivation is not what we planned.
I know this poem’s pretty awful,
But invading other lands isn’t lawful,
And riding on the merry-go-round ride,
Leaves the riders with no place to hide.
And you have to pay your pennies for the chance,
To go up and down in a trance.
I do, in fact, realize that this is bad poetry written by a pretty poor poet. But, as you can plainly see, I am not very pretty… and not poor now that my bankruptcy is paid off. (Having nothing, but not being in debt makes me richer than Trump.) But life in 2022 is no more poetic written in putrid prose either.