Populusque Trumpius Poem by mark fishbein

"As to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are pleased to tell them"Plato, Protagoras 317

Their faces are wrinkled by the desert sun.
Their bodies are fat from cloned potatoes.
They carry firearms to the fireman's ball,
And listen to music which makes you crawl.
Meeting at the neon bar for beers,
They sneer at anything which doesn't live near!
They are the good souls from the heartland-
Do not presume to be their friend.

They believe the dinosaurs were in Eden
With a blue-eyed Adam and straw blond Eve;
And if the world is flat or a sphere
Is still a deep debate around there.
Still their shamans and holy men rattle
From the podium of the coming battle
Between Jehovah and the tribe of Satan,
For thousands of years and still awaitin';
They are the good souls from the plains-
Do not presume they use their brains.

They have sad smiles with puffy cheeks
From years of grinding their angry teeth
About the type of folk that don't speak their speak,
That don't fry up butter and chicken feet;
They use all the tools of technology-
The car drives, the cellphone rings, the ice box cools,
Yet they think all science is for godless fools!
These are the good souls of the main street towns-
Do not presume they want you around.

There is no chorus or parlor dance to share,
There are no poets or dreamers near.
It was once we joined in noble labor
Of building a nation of neighbor to neighbor.
But like owner and slave or peasant and king
They allow the coldest chime to ring,
Proclaiming their clan is the one true thing.
These are the good souls of America today-
Do not presume they hear a word you say.

Their generations will desert them,
Like all inquisitions they will bend
To compassion that time must change;
Son and daughter will deny their hate
And bury their shame and stupid debate.
But, for now, these good souls hold in place-
As all the world watches our utter disgrace!