Tone Deficit

Can't tell your oh from your ah? Go, go or else go ga-ga. What, were you born in a barn? Oh. Ah. What do you say when the dentist asks? No novacaine? Nah. Then joke's on us, Jack: we gnaw ourselves when we really ought to know. Can't tell the force from the farce, nor our cores from our cars. The horde works hard in this new nation of shopkeeps, moles in malls, minding our stores when we should be minding our stars. Harmony, whoremoney—can we even tell the showman from the shaman? Or are we the worst kind of   tourists, doing La France in low fronts, sporting shorts at Chartres and so alone in our élan? Nope. We're Napoleons of nowhere, hopeless going on hapless, unable to tell our Elbas from our elbows.