The following poem was written by Sandy Hartman, a retired Jacksonville educator and poet. Sandy's timely poetry speaks to the U.S. state of affairs. Please share!
Carnival of Fools
Oh, it's Monday morn at last
And revelers swagger past
All the Saints Go Marching In
With their leverage, pork and show
And proposals shrewd and bold
They'll whirl and twirl and dance
To jazz, pizzazz, and razz matazz
They've spent a frenzied weekend
Adjusting their adornments
And refining their performance
So It’s down the streets of glitz and gold
To the Capitol of Capital - King Congress
They will go
Now comes a boom beat, down beat, down
It’s down through K Street
Down through Wall Street
Down to Main Street
Round and round
Now see the speculators, managers and traders
Now see the lobbyists executives and raiders
Judiciously they hedge in prancing camouflage
Identities are blurred, realities obscured
They wear their sparkling masks
Daubed in paint and mourning in ash
They whirl in feathered frills
In laissez fare's panache
Boom jam, jingle jam, caper down a street jam
Oh, they'll testify to tragedy
They'll tout their credibility
They'll warn of the economy
And disappeared liquidity
Then they'll plead for credit urgency
Yes, it's all wrong, gone wrong
Beyond their small control wrong
Boom jam, doom jam, hey ba ba June jam
They’re unavoidably caught up
In floods of green and gold
They'll swear in loyal innocence
They know not how it's so
They are the patriot paraders
Responsible and reasonable
Ready to cajole
La dee da dee da La dee da dee dee
There’s mighty plans for buyouts
And clever plans for bailouts
They'll ask for pretty handouts
To make the money flow
They'll assure the Treasure King
With paper assets sound
And they say they know of wizards
Who'll insure parades abound
Now it's mumbo jumbo, pork pie and gumbo
But there are marchers over there
In jeans and denim shirts
Who carry paper bags
For lunches when they work
There are marchers with portfolios
In suits and ties and collars
They have lists of all their pensions
Investments and their dollars
They’re In an ordinary guise
Such marchers aren’t too wise
They have no glitz and glamour
They’re like the crowds that line the streets
The crowds who beg for beads
Who push for passing treats
Crowds that satisfy themselves
At painted breasts to peek
They’ll ask for lipstick kisses
And the promises so sweet
They will dream Chantilly dreams
And stare at ruffled goddesses
Who saunter down the street
Now look again above
At the fat and thin white faces
They're squared in gilded windows
Above the frenzied game
Their tall silk hats and black bow ties
Appear and disappear
They white glove wave and sip champagne
They toast the crowds that shout acclaim
And who is that who moves behind
Who stands in darkened halls so high
Who spies in shadows, smoke and mirrors
Who gently taps the curtains
That cover what appears
I for one am tired from watching far too long
This strutting wild parade going on and on and on
My feet are wet and sunk in dirt
My shoes stuck fast in paint
I'm covered in confetti clumps
Of worthless shredded crepe
But when I turn to move away
From all the bogey faces
My pockets feel that they are picked
My shoes are mired in the slick
Then at last I stop to think
And I know I've lost the way
Now, I never will go home
To spend another day
Sandy Hartman
c 9/29/08
