Wry. I was trying to think of what I would call this poem; I think I'd call it wry. Fun visuals. Of course, like with all satire, it's only funny if the professionals are not burning the forests (or selling them off cheap); if the English don't really eat Irish babies (soylent green?); if BUsh really isn't destroying the middle class (oops). It has to be absurd - not real.
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