The Ship of State Is Foundering Now

The Ship of State is foundering now;
Its aft is forward, and back is bow.
Who’s the pilot? who’s the mate?
Who runs a crew so enervate
While on the seas the other captains
Can steer their ships without distractions.
How did the boat turn ‘round so soon?
Is our captain a buffoon?
Seems we’re sailing backwards now,
The aft, I see, becomes the bow.


Let’s ask him why he steers us so;
The Press must ask for us to know.
“Oh Captain, dear, what flavor’s this,
“‘Nilla, chocolate, or Cosmic Bliss?”
Reporters know what not to say.
Some questions will make him inveigh
As he ascends the ship’s gangway,
They hope he doesn’t trip going up;
They dare not mock the old grownup.
To ask the pilot where we’re going
Or why without some fuel we’re rowing
Invites a walk off some gangplank
Into the sea both dark and dank.


The independence we once had
In energy has made him mad.
“Who needs a fuel to drive a boat?
“We’ll just plug in, and then we’ll float.”
And like some Ahab after whales,
Against the weather he now rails.


And in the pilot house aloft
He listens to the first mate’s boff.
He cannot tell her, “Take the helm.”
To her all tasks can overwhelm.
She’s better suited to ship’s galley,
Where she can make a word tomalley.


This is the Ship of State of late;
And foundering seems to be our fate.