I wonder if the guys at the CIA

Don’t laugh till they cry o’er the things we say:

The Company did this and prob’ly did that,

They knocked off Allende and then did my cat,

They overthrew X and discredited Y,

Who kept local peace and was a pretty good guy.

Does amazement abound in their lunchtime canteen?

“They say we’ve infected the native Chad bean!

We’re talking to E.T.s, poleaxing left pols,

Slip Pope Francis mickies, down-dumb all the prols.

On mainstream reporters we keep a choke-hold,

And woe is the scribe who tries to go rogue!”

Do they laugh all that off over good rosé?

Or moan “if only!” and get on with their day?

Or maybe perusing those wild scandal hacks,

Who scream the Agency some Nazi-type backs,

They rub chinny-chins and pull out yellow pad,

Saying, “No, that ain’t us, but the idea’s not bad.”

Of course I’m referring to them and their Friends,

’Cause Central’s a word that both long ways extends:

“Is linked to,” “on orders of,” “sometimes worked with”:

It seems half the earth enjoys CIA pith.

Of course, just which half and how much we don’t know

That this Deus ex machina has changed our tableau.

Which ends our history, fallen right off the cliff,

And since ’45 has been one big “What if?”

What if the Company was behind Watergate?

What if Obama from their dish first ate?

Until we know sure what the CIA’s zapped,

Our story’s redacted, all thread-bare and gapped.