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In all the protests from me you've heard
There's hardly a breath with a worm-free word;
I'm so encrusted in Self, that if split
Like a druse, I'd display my inner pit.
This defense I raise to double-ground me,
To combat the unspeakable dullness around me
That furls me in its slimy rubber,
Tries to choke me with its boa-blubber.
Against this serpent I rant and rail,
With potent volleys of Self I prevail,
As did, as does every exile, captive,
And house-arrested neo-adaptive.
We are the collective foes of BLEAT,
The force that whitewashes all that's un-neat,
An Everypeople lined up like hoodoos,
Clad in reflective Mylar muumuus,
Reflecting sameness to infinite deeps,
That is: shallow muck in infinite sweeps.
First a society unlearns its letters,
And then, through the japes of its jolly trend-setters,
Forgets speech and thought, till it's left with one tool:
A bully club anointed with drool.
This speaks with a monotone thudding noise
As it bounces off errant girls and boys;
It lisps as it cracks each rib and skull—
(While it swings sky-high, there's a merciful lull)—
Then it puns as it pounds into grit the rare,
The ancient, the pure, the delicate, the fair,
For these refinements it can't comprehend . . .
So it pummels the lot to the same putrid end.

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