by Alex Grady
We bitched and moaned about our choices
Texted and tweeted and raised our voices
This one’s too rich, can’t be trusted
That one’s under investigation, about to get busted
He’s too gold,
She’s too cold,
Why can’t we ever get someone who can’t be bought or sold?
So smart kids did what smart kids do
They tinkered and toiled, then out of the blue
They showed it to us; shiny and new
His power supply is uninterruptible, they said
His programming is completely incorruptible, they said;
How could they have known we’d end up with a ruler made of chrome, on a throne made of bones and the former president’s head?
How could they have predicted the universal health scare,
When he invaded a planet that didn’t know we enlisted, didn’t know we existed, until our shiny new deep-space warships eclipsed it?
We don’t know if the aliens heard his decree,
Its unfeeling logic, in tone or degree,
but most of the smart kids agree, it was hard not to see
the aliens responding with tachyon beams.
The blast turned the population of Wellington to skeletons,
Braintree got to be way more literal and visceral,
most of Massachusetts became a fine powder;
The Boston Harbor now stouter, is New England Man Chowder.
We bitched and moaned about our predicament,
Our cyborg president belligerent, but ambivalent, busy trying to make an intergalactic doomsday weapon, or a significant equivalent, but not too busy to order dissidents’ imprisonment.
I’d thought we’d vote him out this year, but turnout was only ten percent.
Alexander Grady, a widower and father of a five-year-old son, Walter, was once chosen to represent the United States of America in an international martial arts tournament against Team Korea, despite a shoulder injury that once forced him into retirement.