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.