General Smooch,
Trimmed grey hair,
Piercing eyes (yawn)
Stands at the podium looking wise (sigh),
Talks with deep authority (yeah …)
About the Impossible that they WILL achieve (snicker)
To an audience of - well.
One.
Hi.
It’s me.
And how long have you been here?
It’s raining.
I see.
You know, feller,
If you took that silly hat and uniform off you’d just be -?
What?
A senior sales manager?
An executive in Big Corp PLC?
Of course you have to play the game,
Bulling it up,
Creating the fake aura of power -
I know that.
We both do.
Stand easy.
But really - let’s cut to the chase - you haven’t a clue.
Do you?
No, not really.
You do very well in the practical stuff,
The fighting of wars according to manuals,
The leadership of men by the book,
The presentations in big tents to the world’s media
(Relax, you weren’t THAT bad),
But I think you’re out of your depth.
I do.
It’s not coming from the heart.
There’s no passion.
It’s just a job,
And the morality of Smart Bombs, Dumb President has outfoxed you.
So you retreat.
That’s what you do.
Step through the motions,
Play the General game,
A bit of fancy dress.
No shame.
Would I come to you for great insights?
Would you?
Come on!
You’re as clueless as the next man,
But your pretence is deeper
And you’re the more dangerous for that.
Ah, well.
Sales didn’t involve so much death, did it?
Adieu.
We’ve all seen the Generals in the big Press Briefing tent, nervously preparing to face the media. This poem imagines coming across one such General making a solo presentation at the side of the road. But what are these Generals? Middle-aged men who chose a career a long time ago, a career that could just as easily have been in Sales, and they build up a façade of authority and wisdom when really - let’s be realistic - they’re just in fancy dress, following the commands of some gibbering idiot leader.
Would YOU ask one of them for some great insights into life?
Thought not.
Me neither.
