Nineteen Eighty Four

George sat puffing at his pipe,
Staring at the finished type.
“My publisher,”thinks he,“has said it's vital
To find a catchy, modern title.
So far I've thought of nothing other
Than The Triumph of Big Brother.
But, let me see, it's prophecy,
The death of our democracy.
Let's set it fifty years from now.
Technology will then allow
The ruling cliques to bend the mind
Of placid, supine humankind --
Conformist men without the spine
To think of stepping out of line,
But kept in mortal fear and awe
By constant, everlasting war,
With phantom enemies inclined
To be an illusion of the mind.
‘Support the war, be patriotic!’
Ah, that age-old, worn narcotic!
They'll wave their flags, support the fights
And unaware give up their rights.
Some thoughts of protest might be weighed,
But it's too late once you're betrayed.
The idea and the timeline work,therefore
I'll call it Nineteen Eighty Four.”

How wrong he was, how all askew,
Out by not just one decade, but two!
The oracle of Delphi, had you let her,
Would certainly have figured better.

If thus George Orwell you've derided,
I fear you're very much misguided.
“Come, come,”complacently you jeer,
“It really couldn't happen here.”

We didn't know it but the rot
Originated in a plot
Twenty years ago, or so
To make the country undergo
A right-wing bid for full control:
‘Up the rich and down the prole.’
Massaging the information
Metered carefully to the nation;
Controlling Congress and the Courts;
Spinning facts and steering thoughts;
Promoting a dishonest war;
Reducing rights before the law;
Calling liberals psychotic;
Branding protest unpatriotic.
Just wheel out bullies on the air;
Cow the meek, mislead and scare.
And here we have it, cruel and bold,
Just as Orwell once foretold.
They have the means, we have TV;
They want the power, poor you, poor me.

But don't despair or curse the day,
They've not consolidated sway.
No Krystalnacht has yet occurred
No tramp of Brownshirts yet been heard.
(Thus thought the Germans hopefully
Back in nineteen thirty three!)
So while there are sands still in the glass
Let not this vital moment pass.
Find a leader (whence? you ask)
Equal to a vital task:
To govern justly and to speak
For all the country, not a clique;
Break up the media and strip
The power from moguls' mulish grip;
Clean up elections, find honest lawyers;
Make businesses be just employers;
Rein in corruption by the few,
And give democracy its due.

What can I say? I hope we may
Find such a paragon someday.
I hold my breath, what can I do
It is your future; it is up to you.