The Two Thousands Poem by Jeet Thayil

In the end it took so little to do us in:
the imaginative use of fuel,
the fuzzy grammar
of this or that group of logicians,
gifts of money
to the strongest among us.
Who could resist those voices raised in unison?
'Travel broadens nothing,'
the Great Martyr said, 'except your tan.'
It was the official position,
broadcast without commercial interruption
every evening at 6.
The time for lyricism had passed.
Also - kissing, sculpture, coq au vin, the tango,
and other items of behavior
too commonplace to mention.
They had G_D on their side;
we had fear.
Same difference, you might have said.
I kept a wet finger to the wind.
Depending on who was winning
I shaved or I didn't.