He Means Well

He means well with his taxidermy smile,
And his voice an accusing yell in the demographic style.
But he doesn’t really know what he stood for long ago,
So he’ll set a spell and it’s just as well.
From the echoing retreat of his padded cell he means so well.
He means well with his dime store posturings,
In an orgy of angst and blame though he hasn’t lost a thing.
With an unremitting scowl, he’ll insist on crying foul
Though the charges fell like an empty shell.
Though the plummet brings a doubt that he can’t dispel,
He means so well.
Couldn’t tell you how he ended up clutching at the rail.
You bet it makes him queasy swallowing his tail.
But to play the jury wasn’t quite what I meant to do —
I know that he knows that I meant well too.
He means well.
Uh-oh.
He means well as he fights what has to be.
(Though he fights like Sherman, everything is predetermined.)
And his efforts to turn the tide hasten the catastrophe.
(While we’re on the topic, the results were catastrophic.)
If I wasn’t so adept at declaring him inept,
I might join the swell and I’d dis and tell.
But I’d die if I should hear everybody yell, «He means so well.»