Wednesday, September 26, 2012 158 Comments


Having held a fellow human being
Backbone to bone on the long bone
Of his arm; having then carried
Him for a year like a football,
Never fumbling once, really never -
And all this before any genuine
Voice was born and could go to war,
Striking with yogurt as he declaims
His shrill imperium of human rights -
Leaves a man ill-suited to any fresh
Assault from doctrines of equality.
They reach him as flat paper echoes
From some republic of styrofoam; a
Grand opera through a teeny speaker.
They cannot compete with his afternoons.
They cannot compel a two-year-old
Who would rather not put on his pants.
Dust of a century too late for bed,
They crumble in that firm embrace
Of dorsal restraint preferred
By big aides on the ward.  "Because,"
He hears himself say, "because God
Bound the strong to rule the weak,
As their burden and their glory -"
Did he just say this?  Even to
Himself?  It is his own throat,
Not a dream or a computer - "because
God bound the strong to rule the weak,
You shall put on your pants."  And
By hand the thing is done.  Yet since
No good sword lacks its back-bite edge,
"Those who wish to command must first
Learn to obey -" easy lesson in some
Ages; most difficult in our own.
The noble is a hunted man, a Jew
In Berlin.  He survives in a mask,
Half a murderer and half a joke.
Even his nuts are small and soft, and
In school his daughters learn only
To despise him.  Who then is left
To rule us?  Where now the lions?
Still bred, perhaps - where trained?
Lord knows we tried ruling ourselves;
You can see how that one worked out.