The Useful Idiot’s Lament

(in the spirit of Longfellow’s narrative verse)

I

O’er gilded halls where banners gleamed,

The cheering throng their voices raised,

Unknowing that the cause they deemed

Would see their hopeful hearts betrayed.

They donned the scarlet for the show,

Entranced by pageant’s dazzling light—

Yet in the gulag’s silent snow

Their freedoms vanished in the night.

II

Now in the age of screens aglow,

No manifesto need be penned;

With rocket-emojis set to go,

And diamond-hands that never bend,

They rally at the altar bright

Of “disruption” as salvation’s key,

Blind to the cost beneath the hype,

Unquestioned faith their guarantee.

III

Recall the tweet on summer’s breeze—

“Funding secured,” the message read—

And Maya, far from Wall Street’s ease,

Put all her hope on words widespread.

But lawyers came with fines to pay,

The chair was lost, the coffers drained;

The million-dollar masquerade

Left common dreams in sorrow stained.

IV

For he who trades in mythic gold

Mints fortune from the crowd’s belief;

A Doge’s light bark, a meme retold,

Can spark a market’s brief relief.

While wages stall and homes decay,

The faithful guard a phantom trust;

They hold the bag at close of day—

Their coin reduced to fleeting dust.

V

As once the preacher’s crackling line

Promised the soul’s immortal rest,

And dot-com stocks in fevered climb

Enthralled the many, scorned the best—

So now the medium shifts its guise,

But con remains in every age;

The lesson hides in history’s eyes,

Inscribed on every empty page.

VI

Yet winds of reason softly blow,

As data-lights begin to gleam;

A counter-march of those who know

That truth must flow from fact, not dream.

They study charts, they read the text,

They challenge chants of fervent throng;

In quiet rooms, they plan what’s next—

To heal the world from dissonant song.

VII

O reader, pause before you cheer

The next bright promise in your hand;

Ask, “Who shall rise when I draw near?

Who profits from this shifting sand?”

For pawns may clamor in the play,

Yet authors wait beyond the stage;

The power lies in what we say—

And how we turn the final page.