Sonnet: They'll Say, No One Can Eat 50 Eggs
by John Kendall Hawkins
Every day's trouble, a double bind,
a flimflam of postures, life-and-death in
the breakaway republic called the mind
lammed from the hive. Once we take a breath in
this world, contumely apparatchiki,
the T2 'mettle' man chases us down
like No Eyes in Cool Hand -- bang! -- and icky,
Judas cries to the what-we-have-here sound.
Psst, between you and me, we know the scores;
everything else is playing them, out there
on the Net. We're all like that. Joystick whores.
Reasons, straight ahead, for helical fear.
They've come up with the Final Solution:
We're all Jews to them now, with volition.
(Article changed on Mar 24, 2021 at 5:34 PM EDT)