Modern Monetary Theory

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𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐲

Rejoice! — don’t surrender to sorrow!
Go spend as if there’s no tomorrow!
Now debt is all fiat!
You can’t even see it!
So borrow, and borrow, and borrow.

— D.N. O’Brien

Deciden on Biden

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Deciden on Biden

I’m a Democrat! I’ll vote for Joe!
He’s demented? Oh sure, that I know.
His brain’s dead as a stump,
But he’s not Donald Trump!
(And he’ll soon be replaced by a hoe.)

Shocked (Democrat voting) Reader:

Hey poet! Now I’m really pissed!
You fascist! You misogynist!
You insult I see
His female VP.
From this defamation — desist!

Poet’s Reply:

Oh, your words, how they sting! You are cruel!
But it’s clear that old Joe’s such a fool,
I must say here in verse,
He’d be as POTUS worse,
Than a functional gardening tool.

— D.N. O’Brien

Real Fear

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𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫

From the firmament do the dead men peer
At the world below with their long dead eyes;
At a crazy world they don’t recognize.
And the sounds of strife reach each ghostly ear,
From the crowd’s foul mouth that is twisted, queer,
And they see the smoke and the headline lies,
And the idiots who are now thought wise;
And the shades, they mutter: “They know not fear.”

For these ghosts have been to the depths of Hell,
Braved the bayonet and the screaming shell.
Now they fix their gaze from beyond the sky,
And they see the truth —see the traitor’s lie.
Now see clearly what they have seen before:
Unmistakable are the winds of war.

— D.N. O’Brien

Zombie Shopping

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𝐙𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

Their masks hide grimaces or crazy smiles —
The zombies of the supermarket aisles;
Each pushing jerkily a shopping cart.
(They mumble as they stay 6 feet apart.)
The living dead deplete the shining shelves,
(These are restocked each night by eager elves.)
Until their carts all overflow with stuff.
(It’s said most zombies never have enough.)
Then off they go to stand upon their X,
Pay with a card — not zombie cash or cheques.
The checkout chicks, the zombie bags won’t pack;
A zombie virus waits there to attack.
The zombies don’t complain; they pack their bags,
Then trundle off to buy their booze and fags.
So daily do the zombies come in flocks,
And since the supermarkets have no clocks,
They wander round and cough and sneeze and fart
For hours — still staying 2 metres apart.

— D.N. O’Brien

Feelings

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𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But don’t let fragile feelings take the wheel —
Between fiction and fact discriminate.
You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But best reality you contemplate,
For reason keeps one on an even keel.
You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But don’t let fragile feelings take the wheel.

— D.N. O’Brien

Pat

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Pat

To join his brothers he was keen.
In forty two at just nineteen,
With both he sallied of to war.
Though never under fire before,
Courage he showed, no lack of will,
But no rejoicing at the kill.
But then there rolled a hand grenade,
And with his life Pat almost paid.
Upon a stretcher he was placed.
With morphine were his veins then laced.
A brother’s hand upon each knee,
Pat asked: “What will become of me?”
“You’ve scored a homer”, they replied;
But twice under the knife he died;
For fragments lay close to his heart —
Cold iron with which he’d never part.
Evacuated back to home,
Not buried under foreign loam,
He thought now of the future peace
When murderous war would wane and cease.
So back to health young Pat was nursed,
For by good fortune he was cursed.
Brought back to life when all but dead —
“You’re fit to fight again.” they said.
Too much to ask of one so young,
Scarred by the blast and by the gun;
And in the morning he had fled.
A note his elder brother read:
“I’m sorry Noel, I’ve done my best,
I’ll wait this war out in the west.”
A tear ran down a weathered cheek;
Noel knew that Pat was far from weak,
So three words with a steady hand
He wrote: “Brother, I understand.”
The two boys fought three more campaigns;
Were members of the few remains.
They both returned in forty five,
And thus did all three boys survive.
Then Pat came back to pay his dues,
And to the state his honour lose;
But all three brothers then embraced,
For each had death in battle faced.
But Pat, the guilt bore all his life —
Cared for his mother, took no wife,
Trod the straight path, and bless his soul,
Revered his brothers, Ron and Noel,
Who kept his secret — his great shame —
They knew that he was not to blame.
And when he lay on his death bed,
A doctor turned to me and said:
“Those scars upon your uncle’s chest —
They’re battle scars, we all have guessed.”
“A hand grenade”, I then replied,
“It’s not the first time he has died.”

— D.N. O’Brien

Chairman Dan

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐧

Here’s a tribute to brave Chairman Dan;
He’s the pride of Victoriastan.
Call him: “Boof Head! Jug Ears!” —
He’s immune to all smears!
He’s our leader! Our hero! Our man!

— D.N. O’Brien