The Diplomatical Simian

He plays at the leash-end

Whilst "culture" grinds the crank

He plays with ottava rima strains

When the muses raise his rank

Octaves he knows many more

Than scan within an inch

Of monkey sandman's drizzle laughter

Imagine how must he itch

To tell off the offices

And the clerks who make a crouch

In bowling to their engines

In plain rooms boldly numbered

See how in a drop of day

They've lost time that so encumbered

Now so free the mortal strain

(As seen on TV, never mind the color

It's all black and white, all problems

Solved in half an hour

Audio then visual)

Ecce sweet refrain:

The sinecure's been sequestered!

Hurrah! Huzzah! Hoobaloo!

Thus all meek before the melting mob

And the center stays smartly centered

Beneath the gaze of micromanager

Whose hurdy gurdy gently groans:

"Dot your 'i' and cross your 't'

Review the 'p' and 'q' and

And . . . presto!"

So drop the idiom, drop the drone

Your song is nearly done

As for your predominance

Preeminent, tall, and novel,

All blue-jeaned and professorial

Well, something's much less, it surrounds:

Have you seen the flatness of the terrain?