Joel Watts has written a post condoning hatred of BP. And although I think he’s substantially right on details, except that the post should probably be renamed “Another Reason to Hate the British Government and their Friends at BP,” I won’t argue the ideological implications of the spill here. Instead, I will simply try to help lower the blood pressures of liberals, conservatives, fascists, and anarchists alike through a peaceful and non-condemning poem. I give you The Oil Poem. It doesn’t go quite far enough, though, so I’m willing to entertain suggestions for additional lines:
This is the sea floor, filled with oil.
This is BP, which studied its soil,
and dreamed dreams of profit from undersea oil.
These are the workers whose labor and toil,
extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
This is the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
so that all the workers could labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
These are the valves which suddenly cracked
(mechanical failure? deliberate attack?)
despite the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
and let all its workers go labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
This is the president, tall and lean,
who promised revenge for the oil-spilled scene,
which flowed from the valves that had suddenly cracked–
mechanical failure? deliberate attack?
despite the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
and let all its workers go labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
a poem to dispell the hatred
Joel Watts has written a post condoning hatred of BP. And although I think he’s substantially right on details, except that the post should probably be renamed “Another Reason to Hate the British Government and their Friends at BP,” I won’t argue the ideological implications of the spill here. Instead, I will simply try to help lower the blood pressures of liberals, conservatives, fascists, and anarchists alike through a peaceful and non-condemning poem. I give you The Oil Poem. It doesn’t go quite far enough, though, so I’m willing to entertain suggestions for additional lines:
This is the sea floor, filled with oil.
This is BP, which studied its soil,
and dreamed dreams of profit from undersea oil.
These are the workers whose labor and toil,
extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
This is the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
so that all the workers could labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
These are the valves which suddenly cracked
(mechanical failure? deliberate attack?)
despite the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
and let all its workers go labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
This is the president, tall and lean,
who promised revenge for the oil-spilled scene,
which flowed from the valves that had suddenly cracked–
mechanical failure? deliberate attack?
despite the inspector, all shiny and clean,
who vouched for the safety of BP’s machines,
and let all its workers go labor and toil,
and extract for BP from the undersea soil,
the profitable sticky stuff we call oil.
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