It's comforting to know government officials the world over are every bit as clueless as those right here in the U.S. of A.

For every Really Stupid Idea an American politician comes up with, some foreign politician is having an equally questionable lapse in judgment.

This is news to no one, of course, except possibly the politicians themselves, who tend to consider their positions in (Washington, Lansing...take your pick) to be a validation of Manifest Destiny.

Over the years, politicians have birthed hundreds of idiotic ideas, most designed to increase government's control over the "little people" (you and me, not the extras in "The Wizard of Oz").

To be fair, politicians do frequently pass legislation to improve health care benefits, insurance benefits and retirement benefits ... for themselves. The rest of us are on our own. (If you think I'm kidding, check your own insurance and retirement plans against those of your congressperson.

If Social Security and Medicare flounder, you can bet your congressperson won't be forced to spend his golden years eating Ramen noodles and purchasing prescription drugs on-line from an illegal Web site in Sri Lanka.)

But I don't want to start ranting here. I really don't. I love politicians, if for no other reason than that they do take themselves so seriously.

They stride seriously through serious, marble halls, seriously going about the people's business with serious expressions on their faces, wearing serious blue suits and never once noticing the piece of toilet paper stuck to the sole of their serious wing-tip shoes.

Ya gotta love ‘em.

Anyway, my point here (I'm pretty sure there was one when I started this column) is that politicians in other countries are just as laughable as our own.

Take Yemen for example. Yemen is (please hold a minute while I Google this sucker) a nation that was until recently divided into North and South. In the 1960s, South Yemen adopted a Marxist philosophy, thereby giving the two nations something interesting to fight about for over 20 years, until 1990 when the two reunited as the Republic of Yemen.

Both sides shook hands, had a nice glass of Cabernet, and agreed they hated Americans even more than they hated each other.

Now facing a common enemy, they agreed to try not to kill each other for a while.

However, "for a while" turned out to be about 20 minutes. Despite now being, officially, one united country, various factions within Yemenese society cannot seem to get along.

I'm guessing it's a lot like the post Civil War North and South here in the States. It has been over 140 years since the American Civil War ended and - to some extent at least - hostilities still linger.

You can check this out for yourself by touring Tennessee while wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend: "Yankee booze beats Jack Daniels any day!"

Or you can drive your pickup through downtown Detroit while flying a Rebel flag from the antennae. (It helps if you have David Allen Coe blasting from the speakers.) Either way, you won't get a lot of smiles from the locals.

But my point is (wait a minute, let me check again ... ah, there it is!) politicians make dumb decisions. Even in Yemen.

To combat all the tribal violence in that country, one Yemenese official not too long ago decided to send in ... poets.

Yep, poets.

The official's strategy is to fund "roaming" by itinerant poets. The poets would, in essence, roam the countryside and "channel lawlessness into constructive thoughts."

I swear I'm not making this up.

Now, I've known a few poets* in my time, and mostly they're skinny guys who like to wear black, sit around pricey coffee shops and practice making tortured, angst-ridden expressions while sipping espresso and glancing furtively out the corner of their eye to see if anyone's paying any attention to them.**

What they don't like is riding a camel across miles of empty desert in search of cranky militants lobbing grenades at each other. But who knows, if the "funding" is sufficient, the Yemenese official may yet find a poet willing to put his plan into action.

I can see it now: Dust arises from the desert floor as yet another Russian-made RPG slams into a sand dune. From the other side of the dune, a guy wearing a khaki turban leaps to his feet and empties the clip of his Kalashnikov in the general direction of the RPG operator. He dives behind some rocks and waits.

In the ringing silence following this exchange, we hear the "thup thup thup" of an approaching camel. As the dust clears, we see the camel's rider, a spectrally thin young man dressed in black and carrying a small cup filled with espresso.

"Hold, noble sons of the desert," he calls. "And listen to my tale."

The RPG operator and the guy with the Kalashnikov peek out from behind their respective cover.

"For the nonce, set aside your hostilities and hearken to my voice," intones the camel rider.

First one, then the other of the combatants tentatively waves a white flag. From opposite directions, the two cautiously approach the poet and the poet's camel.

Good, good," says the poet. "Now, then, put down your weapons."

Neither do.

"Oh, uh ... well, then," says the poet, "hang onto your weapons, but try not to point them directly at me, OK guys?

"For I," adds the poet, regaining some of his composure, "have a story to tell."

Finally, the RPG operator - his finger planted firmly on the trigger - says, "Well ... I have been out here a long time with no cable TV. I guess I could use some entertainment."

"Me too," admits the guy holding the Kalashnikov - holding it directly on the poet, in fact. "Better be good."

The poet clears his throat, allows himself a delicate sip of espresso, and strikes a dramatic pose.

"Stop me if you've heard this one," he says. "There once was a young terrorist, um - I mean freedom fighter - from Nantucket, whose helmet was shaped like a bucket,"

The two combatants glance at each other, nod.

"He filled the bucket with sand, took a lemon in hand, and said to his camel, you -"

We hear the sudden "whoosh" of a rocket propelled grenade being fired, followed by a loud "bang" and the brief rattle of automatic weapons fire. Then ... silence.

When the dust settles, both the poet and his camel are gone. A lone espresso cup lies cracked and leaking on the desert floor.

"I'd heard that one," says the RPG operator.

"Me too," says the guy with the Kalashnikov.

Both combatants return to their respective sand dunes and commence with business as usual.

I don't know if this is how an actual, typical encounter will go, of course, but it seems to me willing poets will not be easy to find.

So, in an effort to improve American relations with Yemen, I volunteer Rod McKuen, the "goth" kid who used to date my daughter, and anybody with a poster of "Desiderada" hanging in their foyer.

* OK, one poet, a doofy goth kid my daughter dated in high school.

** Poets hate me, for some reason.

If you have a comment, question or poem that doesn't have the word "Nantucket" in it, send it to mtaylor@midmich.net.