Friday, September 28, 2012

A magpie without name and I were talking

I had three guesses of his name,
and I blew them all. I thought,
of course, of Kipling; and so I
figured Mowgli would be fine. I
thought of Edward Elgar and his
dream of Gerontius; I even fig-
ured Lutyens on the durbar for
George V. I knew I was dealing
with a Potemkin sort of magpie,
an empty etch-a-sketch of shil-
ling for the exceptionalism of
the mercantile empire, but I in-
nocently got the dynasty wrong.
Mary of Teck would not have had
two Cadillacs.

encumbering himself of a faith that
spoke wonders for the scope of his
bladder, on how the furthest reaches
of the Earth might be enhanced by a
constant sharing of our betterness,
as a people, burnished by the engine
of profits. Subsidiary, but equally
dazzling premises were advanced by
our chirpist, but I came to the ten-
tative conclusion that one can't ac-
tually know what he thinks, if he
does think a thing of his own any-
more, until and unless the President
of the United States is no longer of
African descent. But Friday is not a
day for unhappy reflections. He might
not, actually, revive torture in
our military jurisprudence, once the
spectacle of the black man's humane
Executive Orders were vacated; and
he might fret less about apologies
for our genius, if we had his to fall
back upon.

Yet every day does push forth his
demand to be our leader - our, if
you will, example, as he is bold
(always, we may count on it, bold)
to say. And this Friday I reflect
that it will be nice to have our
Fridays back, once this more can-
didly racist campaign than 2008
has washed away the magpie's tale.

ii  dark sea, Derek 

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