A.J. DiCintio
To her coy president
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By A.J. DiCintio
October 7, 2012

Instead of maintaining a hard eye and sharp focus on reforms necessary to get the private sector growing and producing good jobs, Barack Obama has spent his first term laboring mightily to increase the size, scope, and cost of a federal-government-imposed "social democracy" which will ultimately doom the United States to the economic and social turmoil now wracking the nations of Western Europe.

That obvious reality notwithstanding, his handlers and media shills, when they weren't grumbling blame on the moderator, reacted with surprise to the president's stumbling, bumbling debate performance, which tormented an already exasperated audience with the Freudian slip that his policies are "designed to make sure that. . .everybody's getting a fair share."

The truth is, however, that in trying to defend his economic record, the president of the United States was destined to come across as if "he had been called in front of the principal after goofing around for four years and blowing off all his homework." (Charles Hurt, Washington Times.)

Problem is, in pursuing his foolish, dangerous irresponsibility, Barack Obama didn't just waste his time, he caused us to waste ours, a deadly serious reality comedian Jay Leno captured when to a list of how many minutes we waste on numerous ordinary activities, he added that having spent "four years waiting for Obama to do something about the economy. . .We wasted a lot of time."

As unemployed or underemployed job seekers across the nation, and especially in "swing states" such as Ohio, Pennsylvania, Michigan and Missouri know all too painfully well, we wasted a lot of precious, agonizing time, indeed.

On a positive note, however, all need not be lost regarding that wasted time if we will learn from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," one of the greatest literary works that warn against wasting time.

It's true that on its basic level, the poem is about passion and sex. However, no thoughtful person can read its lines " But at my back I always hear/Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near" without understanding the poem also encompasses the broader idea of humanity's eternal struggle to make the most of each moment granted by God.

With the reminder that one of the definitions the American Heritage Dictionary assigns to the word "coy" is "annoyingly unwilling to make a commitment" (say, for instance, to fixing a ravaged economy), I now leave you to appreciate for yourself how few changes were needed to make this more than 300 year old classic relevant to the choice we face in this year's election.

To Her Coy President

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, Mr. President, were no crime.
You could sit down a gazillion days,
Pondering a fix for our jobs malaise;
Then, a thousand years of respite find, playing golf with money bundlers Dick and Jane
While I, enduring an endless unemployment line,
Would ne'er complain.
I would adore thee as one who could prevent the Flood,
Despite thy ungodly passion for turning the screws
Of insolence and contempt on Israel's Jews.
To please thee more, my unconditional love would grow
Just like thy recovery: slower than slow.
A million years would go to praise
Thine eyes . . . a billion thy far-off gaze.
Two hundred thousand to every act of job creation,
Each one a boon to grads in restroom sanitation.
An age at least to every part,
And the last age would show your collectivist heart.
For, Mr. President, you'd deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near,
Warning, "Yonder before America lies
Deserts of barren bankruptcy!"
Your leftist "change" shall no more be found,
Nor in Knox's vault shall sound
Gold's echoing song, and only devastation flow
From your long-preserv'd ideology,
And your false hope turn into dust
And into ashes all my lust:
Fools pronounce the Marxist classroom a fine, idealistic place,
But it's a hell of a Stalinist world they there embrace.

Now therefore, while the Patriots' view
Of liberty refreshes my mind like morning dew,
And while my willing soul transpires
At every pore with Jeffersonian fires,
Now let me comport myself while I may
Like an independent bird of prey
That would her loves and trials engage
Than languish in a governmental cage.
Let me roll all my strength and all
My senses into one ball,
To choose the pleasures and rough strife
Of freedom o'er an iron-gated life:
Thus, though I cannot make our Chicago Machine's devoted son
Stand down, I can stand up to limit his term to one.

© A.J. DiCintio

 

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A.J. DiCintio

A.J. DiCintio posts regularly at RenewAmerica and YourNews.com. He first exercised his polemical skills arguing with friends on the street corners of the working class neighborhood where he grew up. Retired from teaching, he now applies those skills, somewhat honed and polished by experience, to social/political affairs.

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