James Doyle
 
THE FLIPPANT ZEITGEIST
 
wants Pancho Villa, Dead or Alive,
Shirley Temple mooning, Lincoln still
 
watching the play in his stove-pipe
hat. The audience behind him can't see
 
anything on the stage but an occasional
flash of thigh. Then he keels over
 
and the big picture is clear again.
O, Twenty-First Century, sit back down,
 
let's talk about your childhood, parents,
your fear of wars, Darwin on the couch,
 
the invention of steam shovels, Freud's dirty
mind, and the Golden Railroad Age. We know
 
how hard it is to grow up when you've been
that abused. No wonder you feel the Weltschmerz
 
has let you down, no wonder you can't unhook
your knickers. You wander around, looking
 
for something computers can't do. O, bring
back Gene Kelly, tap-dancing and the simple
 
life! So what if you can't carry a tune
or a wheelbarrow? You've got to stop
 
watching yourself on TV. Brush the ants
off your pants and step lively now.
 
The Twenty-Second Century is roaring round
the bend. And you're stuck on the tracks.