Go Along to Get Along: A Verse Imitation of Horace

freely imitated from Horace’s Epistles I.xviii
and respectfully dedicated to
MR. DONALD HARINGTON

Donald, we vow to tell the truth till death.
Flattery is a pointless waste of breath;
Who takes Brown Nose for friend finds grief,
Like a john who takes a prostitute for wife.

But some there are who veer the other way,
Ranting shrilly everything they say;
They thrust their faces close against our noses,
Overwhelming us with halitosis;
They seem to think bad manners guarantee
Stringent, fierce, old-fashioned morality.

Good manners always seek the middle road:

Don’t be a fawning, sycophantic toadeater
Yessing your honcho’s every word
No matter how moronically absurd;
Don’t stammer, blush, and cast your meek eyes down,
A furtive schoolboy ducking Teacher’s frown.
Grovelers stroke a smug superior’s ego
By serving as his sweetly thrilling echo,
Like understudies standing in the wings
Who mouth along when Pavarotti sings,
Or wannabes in a karaoke bar
Who synch the phrases of a dead rockstar.

Worse yet, the hothead boaster out of sorts
If you dispute his expertise in sports:
“No one now could hold a candle to Mays—
“Buddy, there were Giants in those days!”
He’s one of those loony statistics buffs
Who clenches his debates with fisticuffs.

Affecting no voice other than your own,
You speak your piece in an easy, normal tone.

The wealthy magnate counsels like Polonius—
Wise saws all phonius-baloneyus;
This bloated condescending millionaire
Adopts a crusty, self-important air
To tell us his perspicuous advice is
That we forego his own expensive vices:
“No oysters Rockefeller at Lutece;
“Thy wife shalt not possess a Miu Miu dress;
“No busty starlets, fancy French champagnes,
“Since you can’t flash the cash or show the brains.
“Believe me, ours would be a stronger nation
“If we all lived according to our station.
“Someday you may amass those golden means;
“Till then best dine at home on pork & beans.”

If in your labors you vie with a rival,
Install this plan to ensure your survival:
Feed the hapless sap an empty rumor:
“Your project found the chief in genial humor
“And, while the rest of us grow thin and sadder,
“They’re kicking your butt up the corporate ladder.”
Then settle back and watch the guy go ape:
A Rolex, a McMansion on the Cape,
A sailboat, a Picasso, a divorce . . .
Then comes his shocking case of buyer’s remorse.

Now you reveal the truth and see him drop
To hideous ruin and bankruptcy ker-plop.

Whether he’s a genius or a loon,
The boss still pays the piper, calls the tune.
If he desires to hunt, follow the sound
Of his new shotgun like a faithful hound,
For hunting is a patriotic habit
Proving we’re better armed than any rabbit.
A youth of hunting trains political skill
By teaching how to stalk and when to kill.
We tone the flesh and gratify the spirit,
Trekking to slaughter tiger, swan, and ferret.
Nothing else makes life so sharply pleasant
As mortal combat with a dangerous pheasant.

You don’t need advice, I understand.
My problem is, I’ve got so much on hand:

In chat with friends be closely circumspect;
Don’t tell everything you know; respect
Those secrets broached to you in confidence;
Keep them silent out of deference
To your patron. Be prudent, smart, and wary;
Don’t lay hot hands on his personal secretary;
That’s not a thoughtful way to get ahead;
Best lie alone in a cool and celibate bed.

Consider twice before you recommend
Your club accept as member a new friend;
For any mischief that your pal may do,
Responsibility redounds to you.
Defend his actions? Save yourself the labor.
A burning house will set fire to its neighbor.
Drop him like a coal. There’s no defense
Against suspicious gossip’s pestilence.

The boss says Go and your career is made,
But be afraid, my friend, be . . . very . . . afraid.
The tide of his esteem may have advanced you,
But with the moon that tide can turn against you.
All your words are noted, all your gestures;
An ill-timed joke becomes a wound that festers.

Approval by the bigwigs offers hope,
But every day you walk a frayed tightrope;
They all cling to erratic schemes and notions,
Are prey to unaccountable emotions.
One is Uriah Heep, one plays the joker;
One walks as if he’s wrapped around a poker;
One is an eager beaver, one a slacker,
This one a debutante, that one a cracker;
This one is drunk, that one mad as Ahab;
Here is a cokehead re-released from rehab:
You must survive—which means, you must belong:
You have to go along to get along.

Gear up for a sales conference again
And try to keep yourself from going insane.
The unread volumes of philosophy
Advise us how to do and what to be
To guide our daily lives in even strain,
Avoiding poverty, STD, and pain,
Not green with envy, not scarlet with rage,
But gliding gracefully into old age.
Answers we crave, the creeds cannot supply;
We come to trust in Nature, bye and bye.
“Riches,” “honor,” “glory” soon are gone:
We yearn to live in private on our own.

I stroll along a stand of longleaf pine,
Praying in silence to all powers divine:
“Lend me this same life for one more year,
With Susan, books and music, cheese and beer—
That’s all. The devil take the other stuff.
I know the moral: Sufficient is enough.”
With these I can discover strength of mind,
The balance not to totter with every wind.

I pray to Him with power to take and give:
“Only life I need and the means to live.”

That peace of mind the sages talk about
I’ll find within myself—and not without.

FRED CHAPPELL is Professor Emeritus at the University of North Carolina—Greensboro and was the Poet Laureate of North Carolina from 1997 to 2002.