Under Protest

Instead of walking, we crawled. Instead of talking, we grunted.
Our past times included "bury the man," "eat with this toothpick,"
"microwave this experiment," and "why not a sky light?"
Satellites drifted into the conversation. The national anthem
was still being composed, and we had not learned our own language.
The popular accent in the country was Russian because our
alphabet became prettier the more Eastern we sounded.
Every dinosaur in the encyclopedia had to be memorized.
A graph that would so accord the memorization was drawn up.
It was decided that this would be our national flag.
Fred was our president. He loved dinosaurs and Oliva.
Oliva was not the first lady. Nor was she the last.
Our white house is green. Sure, it's got solar panels.
The white house has a green house and a compost.
The compost is where Fred relieves himself regularly.
The presidential compost is very brown and smells.
It smells like a dinosaur farted. That's where gasoline come from.
When we have to talk about foreign policy, we talk dinos.
For real, that is the way a country ought to be.