Tone Deficit

Can't tell your oh from your ah? Go, go or else

go ga-ga. What, were you born in a barn? Oh.

Ah. What do you say when the dentist asks?

No novacaine? Nah. Then joke's on us, Jack:

we gnaw ourselves when we really ought to know.

Can't tell the force from the farce, nor our

cores from our cars. The horde works hard in this

new nation of shopkeeps, moles in malls, minding

our stores when we should be minding our stars.

Harmony, whoremoney—can we even tell

the showman from the shaman? Or are we

the worst kind of   tourists, doing La France

in low fronts, sporting shorts at Chartres

and so alone in our élan? Nope. We're Napoleons

of nowhere, hopeless going on hapless,

unable to tell our Elbas from our elbows.