Time to Go. Put Up Your Hands or We’ll Bop You

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.