The following was posted as a comment on the blog yesterday, and I am sharing it here with permission. I was tickled by the way the author, who goes by the pen name Meandering Myrmidon, wove hours of my dry content into a charmingly cutting analysis of what is unfolding before our eyes as the Camelot 2.0 campaign gathers steam.
Yesterday, and again this morning, Children’s Health Defense, wrote me that they do not share any information about their donors. As someone who worked at a small nonprofit for seventeen years, I know it is standard practice to prepare an annual report with a list of major donors – even if it is only digital and posted to the website. The IRS 990 filing for Children’s Health Defense indicates a budget of $16,000,000 in 2021. They have a huge online media presence and spin-off publishing and video subsidiaries. There is no excuse for them to have not devoted some of those resources to making their funding available for public review.
With their former chairman, now on leave, running for president, I think we can all expect more transparency than that. I’ll be unpacking this in one or more discussions as soon as I’ve finished pouring over the spreadsheets I’m putting together of CHD’s publicly available financial information and board lists. There are several interesting findings that merit scrutiny from those inclined to support the Camelot campaign with their time or treasure.
In the meantime, enjoy this witty missive. I’m a workhorse researcher whose prose is functional, but rarely sparkles with wit. I keep saying we need artistry to translate this information in a more palatable form. Myrmidon’s poem delivers in spades. One clarification, if this poem is intended to reflect my work, I want to make it clear that no knights have arrived to make me any offers. For that I am glad, as it would be unseemly, and unchivalrous, for any entity to make such an offer, nor would I ever accept.
-The Once and Future Thing-
Just before cock crow,
in a darkling hotel lobby,
the spectral father cries:
“The hour’s come, avenge me, Bobby!”
And from his crystal palace,
the dynastic chosen son,
doles oxytocin tokens,
to the wronged and innocent ones.
Nobly wounded, audibly shaken,
from scores of giants that he’s felled,
he whispers to the multitude,
what his father’s ghost did tell:
“The salmon will be hooked,
the well of wisdom will be plumbed,
naught will remain unknown,
if we blockchain everyone.”
“Let us now praise famous men,
may their interest forever accrue,
we’ll accept all colors and proclivities,
we can tokenize them too.”
“In our liberated markets,
everyone will have a share,
on this side we’ll make solutions,
and we’ll make problems over there.”
“With tokenized revolutions,
we’ll spin them round and round,
and the energy they generate,
will power the cities and towns.”
“Join us, the Impedance,
all free agents and entrepreneurs,
just donate your extra electrons,
oh, mega machine, we’re yours!”
“Come now, let’s reforge,
the pact that was broken,
and pay for this succession,
with this non-fungible token”
Meanwhile, in his tower,
high above the broad Potomac,
Merlyn gazes in his Palantir,
muttering spells alchemical, gnomic.
Director of the spectacle,
Merlyn moves his players about,
charging waves hidden in air.
But Little Alice, scrappy mom,
from the City of the Broken Bell,
raised her voice among the throng,
warning all was not so well:
“They say I’m nuts”, said Alice
“they say I’m not quite sane,
for thinking people are not pawns,
and that life is not a game.”
“I’ve been into the labyrinth,
and gathered many threads,
I’ve woven them together,
and this is what they said.”
She then unrolled a tapestry,
showing the lords of every land,
hunting for a quarry,
that they could not understand.
In the center was a unicorn,
the quested after game,
in magenta script thereon was stitched:
“BEHOLD: THE GLOBAL BRAIN”.
Merlyn, in his tower,
quickly consulted his chart,
of every outcome and income,
to find Little Alice’s part.
He directed a trusted knight,
of the Children’s Health Crusade,
to entice Little Alice,
with the sums she could be paid.
Alas, to no avail,
the crusader wooed in vain,
stubborn and immovable,
Alice’s tale remained the same.
Merlyn, in his wrath, demands:
“who let this thistle grow?,
this pissabed that’s sprouted from,
my neatly tended row”.
So the master of illusion,
broadcasts more at which to stare,
he invokes his spell most tried and true:
“Hey, you, look over there!”
Spectacular scenes emerge,
like toadstools after rain,
hairy men in queenly drag,
war, disease, exploding trains.
All the tricks long utilized,
to hypnotize the peasants,
and I don’t know what happened next,
this hasn’t passed, it’s present.
Poem by Meandering Myrmidon