Camelot

It's true! It's true! The crown has made it clear.
The climate must be perfect all the year.

I see the president staring out of a airplane window at the devastation that is New Orleans below him. He turns and looks directly at the camera and something about the way his shoulders are hunched up under his ears and large head gives him the look of an evil troll.

A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.

I see mothers carrying half-naked babies. The babies heads lay listlessly and silently against their mother's shoulders.

The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.

I see people looting, searching for food and clean drinking water.

Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.

I see thousands and thousands of people packed tightly together outside the Superdome. The news announcer describes the conditions inside as horrific.

The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.

I see hospital patients lying on gurneys being rushed to waiting helicopters through pouring rain. The rain has plastered their hospital gowns tightly to their bodies.

In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.

I see young men carrying rifles riding around in stolen vehicles.

Camelot! Camelot!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Camelot, Camelot
Those are the legal laws.

I hear reports of assaults, rapes, murders and beatings.

The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.

I hear reports that the police do all they can during the day and hide at night.

In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot

I see an old woman sitting in a wheelchair outside the Superdome wearing only a short hospital gown. Her left arm is reaching out for help while her head is thrown back and her mouth open in a silent scream.

In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot

I write the President. I write my congressional representatives. I send money to two different relief agencies. The only thing left to do is cry.

And I do that too.