One drew up to the court of Uncle Sam,
who had in both his arms a great textbook,
who had every degree, passed each exam,
and knew anything’s facts from just one look.
He said that he should run Sam’s policy,
for who better than one who knew all things
to dictate what all men should do and be—
and what should be every man’s upbringing?
And many who were wise agreed with it,
and many who were wiser, not so much.
But it was hard to argue with his wit,
after all, he knew everything he touched.
And so Sam stood still stymied by the choice,
when someone else raised their less refined voice:
~
Another drew up to the selfsame court,
who had in both his arms muscles and dirt,
who had no diploma—but, in retort,
had honesty’s honor pinned on his shirt.
For ignorance can wear but simple guile—
it cannot say but what little it’s seen.
You cannot lie on how you spend your while
if you cannot name anywhere you’ve been.
And many thought he was the better choice,
whose knowledge could not nag his reasoning.
Though there was still the stable counter-voice
that called such touting ‘bad as treasoning’.
So Sam was shaken with his candidates:
keen craftiness, or honest reprobates?
~
And for two hundred years and more it was
that one would win and one would lose the seat;
and some said that’s as democracy does:
and endless dismal cycle on repeat.
And poor Sam never had a day without
some bias ringing in his poor old ears.
Whether in charts and figures wrung about,
or ignorance’s blind trust in faith’s seers.
And both were good at times, and both quite bad,
when each one lost itself to its own fault.
While one would make himself believe he had
fair vision—the other’s sight had a steep halt.
And back and forth and from one blight and back,
no-one seemed to keep their bias on track.
~
Until somebody else went on campaign—
he had nothing in his arms but a pen,
a notebook, too, scribbled on every pane
with notes of things he’d seen and seen again.
He always was still writing, too. Both from
the educated and the not-at-all.
His notebook never seemed to be quite done—
his pen’s ink never seemed to droop nor fall.
And rather than saying what he thought best,
he only said what the next question was.
He left decisions to all of the rest,
while he did what the curious man does.
Ah! That was his name: Curiosity:
the cure for bias and for polity.