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gary-l-mischPoems
We pay homage To you, Dear Bob, Not as misguided, But as pure evil. A man brilliant Enough, To realize he was Wrong, But lie, While trying to Understand Why His numbers, Inexplicably, Did not Work out, While boys died. Not everyone Can use teenagers To keep time, But you did. Couldn't you tell, That your data Were Junk? You could command People to Collect, They laughed while They presented You crap. If your models Could have talked, They would have Laughed, At you. Reporters, For whom Everything is new, Were sure That you brought Systems analysis, To the Puzzle Palace. I guess they missed World War Two. You did ensure It was used, To build Many, Bad, Weapons. You get 'A' For effort, Professor. Those dead soldiers' Moms Applaud you. They hope to Meet you in hell, For another go round. You somehow thought, That all of life, Could be reduced Numerically. How bizarre. In the end, Your failure Was not numerical, But Philosophical, Your calibrated responses, Moved Not one enemy heart, As for yours, You had none. Those attempting to Tell you that You were Mistaken, Were helpless, They might as well, Have been speaking Sanskrit to you. For they spoke in terms of Morality, of which You had none. When you passed, No one mourned, And As hard as you Had tried to buy it, No one, Gave you, Forgiveness.
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May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Homage to Robert Strange McNamara
We pay homage To you, Dear Bob, Not as misguided, But as pure evil. A man brilliant Enough, To realize he was Wrong, But lie, While trying to Understand Why His numbers, Inexplicably, Did not Work out, While boys died. Not everyone Can use teenagers To keep time, But you did. Couldn't you tell, That your data Were Junk? You could command People to Collect, They laughed while They presented You crap. If your models Could have talked, They would have Laughed, At you. Reporters, For whom Everything is new, Were sure That you brought Systems analysis, To the Puzzle Palace. I guess they missed World War Two. You did ensure It was used, To build Many, Bad, Weapons. You get 'A' For effort, Professor. Those dead soldiers' Moms Applaud you. They hope to Meet you in hell, For another go round. You somehow thought, That all of life, Could be reduced Numerically. How bizarre. In the end, Your failure Was not numerical, But Philosophical, Your calibrated responses, Moved Not one enemy heart, As for yours, You had none. Those attempting to Tell you that You were Mistaken, Were helpless, They might as well, Have been speaking Sanskrit to you. For they spoke in terms of Morality, of which You had none. When you passed, No one mourned, And As hard as you Had tried to buy it, No one, Gave you, Forgiveness.
gary-l-misch
Written by
gary-l-misch
American
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
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