Dear Bono,
Recently, before three former U.S. presidents, you stood with misty eyes and a trembling voice to read a poem, your own, mourning the supposed death of USAID, of American empathy, of global benevolence itself. You wept. They clapped. The cameras zoomed in. The room held its breath, not because of the words but because Bono was crying. Again.
And somewhere between the forced rhymes and the recycled sainthood of Volodymyr Zelenskyy, something snapped. Not in you. You’ve been snapping the spotlight toward yourself for decades. It snapped in the rest of us. In those who’ve watched you trade poetry for policy, verse for virtue signals, and human need for headline clicks.
That poem didn’t move me. It pushed me past tolerance. It reminded me how performance can overshadow sincerity and how ego, disguised as philanthropy, can be the most seductive of all lies.
So this letter isn’t a thank-you. It’s a reckoning.
“Ireland’s sorrow and pain is now the Ukraine, and Saint Patrick’s name now Zelenskyy.”
You sent that to Nancy Pelosi, and like clockwork, she read it. Gravely. With reverence. As if you’d just unearthed a lost stanza of Yeats. Meanwhile, somewhere in Kharkiv, a medic applied a tourniquet in silence without a word of applause.
We owe you so much. Without your poetry, how would nations survive? I mean, why arm Ukraine when we can just quote you? Those lines should be etched in marble or at least passed around the group chat for laughs.
And yet, for all your wincing sincerity, we can’t help but notice what’s behind the curtain. You’ve built a life on two things: world-stage posturing and off-stage loopholes. You’re not a global savior. You’re a performance piece about one.
The Dutch Detour
In 2006, you helped reroute U2’s publishing income to the Netherlands. Not for the tulips. For taxes. Ireland capped royalty exemptions, so you followed the letter of the law straight into the spirit of evasion.
You call it smart. Technically, it is. But here’s the problem: you preach about funding schools in Africa while sidestepping the programs your own country funds. That’s not Robin Hood. That’s a PR firm’s idea of Robin Hood.
Back home, protestors stood outside your shows with signs reading “Make Bono Pay Tax.” The irony was perfect. The man scolding the West for not doing enough was, in fact, doing less.
Costume Becomes Character
Remember MacPhisto? That devilish glam icon you played during Zoo TV, mocking the media and mocking yourself? That was satire. Now it’s prophecy. You became the joke. Leather pants turned into tailored suits, and the parody became a reality.
Today, you speak at Davos, dine with world leaders, and still talk like a busker from Dublin. But you’re not that guy anymore. You haven’t been for decades.
The Preacher with the Platinum Spoon
You get invited everywhere: the Vatican, the UN, and the White House. You arrive with conviction in your chest and a spotlight at your back. You scold prime ministers, guilt celebrities, and quote scripture. Then the cameras shut off. What’s left?
You have a private jet, a castle, and a discography that’s 40% filler. You also have access. That’s the part that sticks. People listen. But do you use it for substance or just another story?
Let’s be clear: the world doesn’t need another artist who speaks truth to power when it trends. It doesn’t need another spotlight sermon. It needs someone who can cut a check and fund the hospital wing.
Was That Supposed to Be Art?
In Boston, you once shouted, “Pull the trigger, I’m a rock and roll n****r.” Maybe you thought it was edgy. Perhaps you were chasing shock value. Either way, it wasn’t brave. It wasn’t art. It was cheap theater built on a slur you’ll never carry the weight of. You didn’t make a statement. You made yourself the story.
Your Memoir Isn’t a Mirror
In “Surrender,” you laugh at your excess. A little wink here with a supposed self-aware jab there, then you move forward, writing another verse praised with another interview and standing ovations. When you confess yet don’t change, you don’t show humility. Instead, you showed your marketing acumen.
We mortals carry all sorts of baggage. Your baggage includes a stylist, a lighting crew, and a talented accounting team.
Ukraine, But With Mood Lighting
This year, in a perfectly framed moment, you sat down amid lit candles and played a little piano while quoting Shevchenko. It was perfectly framed but as hollow as an Easter bunny.
Looking for solidarity isn’t reading into a lens; it’s lived through soldiers marching without boots and, if they’re lucky, children eating once each day.
A Legacy You Won’t Touch
Want somebody worth emulating? Try William Wilberforce. Wilberforce didn’t announce all the sacrifices surrounding slavery. He worked without an entourage or social media managers. He had no spotlight and didn’t bother with a memoir; he just focused on the grind.
Your grind, Mr. Bono? It’s stylized and branded, something out of focus groups.
The Mirror Never Lies
You write words that don’t help the poor. Your words lift a mirror, buff it bright with sentiment, then bask in the applause when its light shines dazzlingly back at you.
There’s always the curated image, the pose with a child smiling in the background, taken with a camera always ready. Once finished, you move on to the next sermon during the next summit.
And If There’s Anything Left…
If something exists from the kid from Dublin, the one singing for more than the echo. Would that kid be sick over the journey you’ve taken? Would he watch your TED talks on humility, tilt his head in confusion, and ask what exactly your sacrifice was to earn that humility?
Saint Selfie, keep reciting, but do not for one moment confuse applause for impact.
I thank you, truly, for your many years of public service as the lead singer for virtue, the honorary envoy of developing nations, and the mood-setter for all the emotionally insecure world leaders.
Keep an eye on the calendar, Mr. Bono. Retirement age came and went a while ago. You might want to consider hanging up the halo and giving humanity a breather. Maybe let Barbara give things a whirl for a while.
Related: Barbra Streisand Hates the Peasants Again
After decades of loud music, your ears may need a break. Try birdwatching. Or, better yet, start a podcast where you read your lyrics back to yourself, with the requisite pauses, until enlightenment kicks in.
Whatever you decide to do, good luck. After reading this, please don’t go away mad. Just go away.
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