After all, what else could inspire someone to turn one's hand to poetry?
Here's Al's climate poem:
One thin September soonOh, bravo! Bravo! The talent! The wonder! Magnificent!
A floating continent disappears
In midnight sun
Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea
Neptune’s bones dissolve
Snow glides from the mountain
Ice fathers floods for a season
A hard rain comes quickly
Then dirt is parched
Kindling is placed in the forest
For the lightning’s celebration
Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups
Passion seeks heroes and friends
The bell of the city
On the hill is rung
The shepherd cries
The hour of choosing has arrived
Here are your tools
Can you imagine the screeching scorn from the cultural elites if George W Bush had written such drivel?
I think that The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy needs to be updated.
I might have a crack at some climate poetry, too...
Tracking brave soulsHow'd I go?
Data inconvenient
An abacus to use
Water ebbing up and
Down across endless
Stools in the night
Belching cars go
By jingo I say
These graphs are not
Round and round they
Go to the dogs
Stars shine down dimly
Half a degree
One degree
Two degrees upward
All in the Valley of Death
Predicted the Six Hundred
Climate Models
I can no longer continue
A crisis befalls us
Not of climate but of poetry.
Al Gore, as they say in The Simpsons, eat my shorts...
(Nothing Follows)
1 comment:
Gore's first problem is that he thinks continents float on water. His second is thinking he can write poetry.
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