The Secretary-General at Midnight
me read the poem:
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The Secretary-General at midnight,
Having spent a long day on his knees:
Even as the Earth twirls towards twilight,
Sovereign states do ever as they please,
Each doomed along with all, as none foresees.
Challenged, the one nation that must lead
Reiterates its reasons to refuse,
Even as the barracuda breed,
Threatening a game that all must lose,
A chance no gambler, crazed or drunk, would choose.
Restricted to the power of persuasion,
Yielding, naturally, but scant success;
Given but the stature of his station,
Eliciting fine words to please the press;
Near desperate, he starts slowly to undress.
Elevate your legs, he thinks, and then
Reclines as usual, and then again
Alights, and feels the Earth beneath him spin,
Longing more and more for less and less.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon
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