Sonnet: What, Am I A Potted Plant?
by John Kendall Hawkins
How am I supposed to know what I need
to know on a need to know basis when no one
will say what they know and just hide and bleed
in the shadows of giggly presumption?
Socrates proved that we're all ignorant boffs,
even, largely, loud-mouthed snorkel porkers
who wallow in silly-gism corkers
and who should carry around hemlock quaffs.
I don't really care anymore. It's all
relative and mean and more's on its way.
I could go Quasimodo, stand real tall
against the gawking fates, but not today.
If you won't tell me what I need to know --
who needs Socrates for my dumb to show?