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writing for godot

The Turtle Had Been Reading His Press Clippings

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Written by Carl Peterson   
Wednesday, 28 June 2017 08:17

The Turtle Had Been Reading His Press Clippings

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

and the brickbats had always bounced off his shell.

But he could not tell

fragrant praise or honeyish flattery

to go back to Hell.

Like insinuating smoke,

it wound and curled its way between his armpits

and his shell, and found

a welcoming soft spot, inside, in the Turtle's heart.

You are a good Turtle!  You are a great Turtle!

Maybe the best Turtle ever!

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

and tho his shell was made of the finest,

densest cynicism,

compressed like carbon into diamond

to yield almost

invulnerable Republican nihilism,

the Turtle, alas, had a weakness for blandishments.

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

A master they said.

If anyone can do it, he can, they said.

Even if no one else could do it, he can, they said.

If there's a way he will find it, they said, and the Turtle read,

And his Masters pled: Find a way, Turtle!

And so achieve greatness.

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

and though close calculation had been his game,

and he had never risen from all fours, this task,

set by his Masters, might require him to reach, to reach...

And here the Turtle had misgivings.

But then,

like insinuating smoke from Hell,

it wound and curled its way between his armpits

and his shell, and found

a welcoming soft spot, inside, in the Turtle's heart.

You are a good Turtle!  You are a great Turtle!

Maybe the best Turtle ever!

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

and thought y-y-yes, he could manage this thing,

Twenty-two million children, women and men,

So gross a frontal offense,

but its grotesque achievement

would put the Turtle's name up there,

his radiant glory, lighting its letters, for all to see

where a Turtle's name had never been.

And his wealthy Masters said,

You must do it Turtle, you must.

You are a good Turtle!  You are a great Turtle!

Maybe the best Turtle ever!

And besides, otherwise, the cork goes back

into the piggy bank.

 

The Turtle had been reading his press clippings,

Fortified, he advanced into the breach,

flattery-intoxicated, Mammon-led.

Hubris-raised, he stood to improve his reach.

And his front legs,

Become arms, stretching to grasp his Masters' prize,

But alas, Turtle's poor soft belly, had risen

for the first time, unhardened by realism, softened by praise,

unguarded by cynicism. Irresistible target,

the blow came swiftly

Turtle against Democracy

fatal struggle, it always was,

the People's hook to the Turtle's liver.

 

On his back, his legs waving piteously, his Party soon righted him,

But the Turtle now wore for all to see: nausea, pain,

and tears,

not flowing, but just in back of his eyes

moistening them as though they were porous.

And everyone saw that the Turtle was crying

for the Turtle.

 

But the Turtle would be pushed

once more

into the breach,

And softened inside by flattery

and years of coward's work serving the wealthy,

the Turtle could not resist but was carried along.

 

Like insinuating smoke from Hell,

it wound and curled its way between his armpits

and his shell,

and found inside, weeping, the Turtle's heart.

Still, flattery whispered,

a snake's hiss.

You are a good Turtle!  A great Turtle!

Maybe the best Turtle ever!

 

 

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