Somewhere in Wash-town there's a room filled with smoke,
Where adults sit around and make doom a joke.
They argue, debate and work out the next years,
Schedule some wars and gun-victim tears,
Plan to squeeze Russia and twist China's nose,
And lead John Q. Public to smell the right rose.
And up until now things have gone pretty well:
Governments in debt and under banks' spell,
Armies competing and boosting arms sales,
Unemployed crowds who don't question tales
From well-combed poseurs who tell them the news,
Never quite adding that these are just views.
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