That because this world is as it is, does not mean it need necessarily be.

He sipped some wine,
Closed his eyes,
Pursed his lips,
And pronounced on the flavours,
The soil and the vine.
Then soliciting praise
He declared to the host
“But then I am just a philistine”
To which fellow fallen jowls acquiesced:
“An untrained palate, and yet so refined!”

So the wine passed their preening lips
That pressed the flesh
That plumped up his ego,
So that he held forth
When the conversation turned
To matters of weight;
Of the hurricane’s havoc
In a southern US state.

But he supped only from the cup he’d been given;
Platitudes dribbled from his mouth:
“It’s a tragedy”,
“But then maybe fate decrees”,
“It was meant to be”.

“I see”, said I,
Your half closed eyes,
Your fatalistic call to inaction.
Your soporific words,
The paralysing metre
Of your Panglossian dirge
That leaves your conscience undisturbed.

But his calloused brain,
Abraded, blanched and coarse of grain,
Refused to comprehend,
That because this world is as it is
Does not mean it need necessarily be.