T.B. - AN EPITAPH

Perfection of new kind, was what he was after,
Though the language he'd invented
                                    no focus group yet understands;
He pressed men to folly with compressing hands,
Yet, was greatly beguiled by a friend's forces and fleets;
When he grinned, the once respected lost regard in laughter,
And when he lied - the little children died in the streets.

                    (Apologies to W. H. Auden)