Bono published his second editorial in The New York Times yesterday and as I was choking on my cornflakes I thought I've got to blog about this keek, but then I thought, what's the bloody point? Bono is beyond satire, if you can't see through him by now I cannot help. Besides hypocrisy and evil are everywhere triumphant and it was always thus. Reminds me of this poem by Mary Robinson (1758 - 1800) called January 1795 which I thought I'd just blog instead:
Pavement slippery, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious;
Courtiers cringing and voracious;
Misers scarce and wretched heeding;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses;
Theatres, and meeting-houses;
Balls, where simpering misses languish;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing:
Commerce drooping, credit failing:
Placemen mocking subjects loyal;
Separations, weddings royal.
Authors who can't earn a dinner;
Many a subtle rogue a winner;
Fugitives for shelter seeking;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.
Taste and talents quite deserted;
All the laws of truth perverted;
Arrogance o'er merit soaring;
Merit silently deploring.
Ladies gambling night and morning;
Fools the works of genius scorning;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken;
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.
Some in luxury delighting;
More in talking than in fighting;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid;
Lordlings empty and insipid.
Poets, painters, and musicians;
Lawyers doctors, politicians;
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes
Seeking fame by different roads.
Gallant souls with empty purses;
Generals only fit for nurses;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of veteran merit.
Honest men who can't get places,
Knaves who show unblushing faces:
Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded;
Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.