I use the English language in mysterious ways.

Walking between the raindrops in a fantastical-gray Dublin December, I begin to muse and meander through the days and nights (and everything in between) of this strange, strange year. In the first decade of a new millennium, we seemed not to progress, but perhaps to take a sheepish step backward. Brave Old World.

Sure, you say, bard of ole’ Ireland, what do you know of change? You sing. (To some, cacophony; others, symphony.) Rhymey timey. Singy songey.

But I have walked the beaches and the barrios of a cornucopia of nations, those with boundaries and those without. I’ve swam the oceans and pools of each corner of this verdant Mother earth.

And it is She, quiet matriarch who asks little of her brood, for whom I fear most in this next ten– tenuous, tendentious– years. They say the icey dreamscapes of the great North will slushily succumb and the waters will rise.

It’s high time to bide the high tide. If we wait any longer, baby, it’s gonna be too late. Emissions is the Mission.

Boppity gippity. Dippity doo. Ga-na-ha-da. Ooo-eee-ewww. The times they are a-climate changing. Bono. Mono. Stereo. Hero. Boyo.

Polar bears. Solar cares. Git git gedak. Foppity woppity. Drippity droo.

Humbly yours,
BONO, singer (nay– dreamer.)

(Editor’s Note: Readers are recommended to see also, Guest Blogger: Meghan McCain. Also, you may want to check out this actual [i.e. non-satirical] column by Bono.)