The Ingenuous Pessimist

Props (and apologies!) to W.S. Gilbert.

Deny them your attention and they'll claim it all the same,

These critics who decry the culture, placing all the blame

For misery on music and immodesty on dress;

Who regret our use of money but who earn it nonetheless.

They cannot see a golden arch but they must shake their fist.

Of every kind of church's indiscretions they've a list.

They say our culture's dying, dead, and call us ancient Rome,

And think we'd all be better if we kept our children home—

'Cause we're going to die!

To pleasant kinds of forecasts of the future they've a sneer,

And frown upon the clown who doesn't micro-brew his beer;

Of fashion they've no sense at all except that it is bad;

Of manners they've a concept only when a guy's a cad.

The sky is always falling when and where they chance to stand,

And nothing seems to slow its fall (except their reprimand).

They damn each new technology before it has been tried,

And justice they remember only when it's been denied—

'Cause we're going to die!

Well, I was born a crab at heart and grew up in a frown;

The family had to work to keep my pessimism down;

But things must all have changed the other hour when I blinked,

Since Pollyanna, Pippi, Anne, and I are insta-linked.

I don't mean to be cheery and offensive when I grin,

But are these troubles any more original than sin?

I know it looks as if the Devil's party are ahead,

But since we know Who's winning, what's it matter if we're dead?

'Cause we're going to die!