Gulf Coast disaster: From bad to verse
When drilling deep in search of oil,
You need an iron will,
But even more essential is
Some way to stop a spill.
It's not that every fancy rig
Is doomed to blow sky-high,
But when one does, it's nice to know
An answer is nearby.
Some piece of gear, some golden tool,
Some method tried and true,
To turn that oily sucker off
And save the world from goo.
The wisest know the way to go
Is horses first, then carts—
Which means you've got it figured out
Before the drilling starts.
Instead of, say, the BP way:
"Let's do it off the cuff!"
Which mostly means your backup schemes
Are never quite enough.
You try a "dome," a "hat," a "kill,"
With golf balls, tires and mud,
You add a pump, you slice a pipe,
And ev'ry one's a dud.
As barrels by the millions
Turn the Gulf a sickly brown,
The days turn into weeks, then months—
You still can't shut it down.
Embarrassing? It's worse than that:
The beaches and the marshes tarred,
That petro-poison smell.
The fishes going belly up,
The turtles short of air,
The shrimp and crab and crawfish gone,
And all the while the gush persists,
New horrors with each drop,
While folks who make their living there
Are crying, "Make it stop!"
But "stop" keeps floating out of reach,
You'll do it if you can,
But this was a complete surprise!
(It wasn't in your plan.)
So next time that you drill a hole
A mile beneath the sea,
Perhaps you'll have your answers first.
Be wise—Be not BP.
Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at firstname.lastname@example.org