What’s done is done, but what’s to expect
with every pit-stop filled
to the brim, and that company
whose shares are now rock bottom
is leaning over the precipice,
leaving you, yes you, in deep and roiling water with the sharks?
“Who’s that?” you ask. Kissing cousins, I suppose,
Oh, it’s an end, an end, and a beginning also,
a placenta peaevia abrupto, so to speak.
Then all of a sudden the door is knocking
off its hinges, and there they are,
the men in dark badges
with their unnecessary ties in action,
and everyone so up-tight you’ve expanded, the room full
of handcuffs, and all the rest of the paraphernalia.
“Listen,” you say, “I’m as guilty as sin.
So let’s have beer before departing.”
Lucky enough, you’re not a citizen,
so it’s alley-oop on the QE2.
But first we all get rousin’.
That was a crappy century, the twentieth.
And this one doesn’t look much better
We should be glad if we survive it.