Let’s say you’re in charge of the hiring and firing—
You’re after a woman who’ll answer to you.
Assuming you’re needing a binder to find ‘er
You’re likely admitting you don’t have a clue
Despite your executive power, you cower,
Cos all of your partners, for years, have been men
You’re frightened to look past the he-males, at females—
Accustomed to capons, you don’t want a hen.
Your yes-men will tell you, debating’s creating
An alternate viewpoint; an alternate world.
Available polls seem to notice the POTUS
Is there at the top, with his banner unfurled.
The strategy thus far you’re trying (that’s “lying”)
May work in the short term, but not in the long;
The truth, though (the stuff you’re not saying)’s dismaying
Your lies do all right, but your truth is all wrong
Ok… I offer this verse as proof that I have no standards to speak of. Even *I* think it sucks. It doesn’t follow a consistent narrative, and it doesn’t make a point that actually makes sense. I suspect it was a good idea to start with, but this is one that anyone with standards would have introduced to the recycling bin.
But I had to get it out of me. It started asserting itself into my consciousness, and I tried to ignore it. That didn’t work. I had to finish it. Having done so, I disliked it, but post it because… I don’t know, really. It’s much more like an obsessive ritualistic behavior than creating poetry.
Speaking of getting things out of me… a wonderful romp through the woods a few days ago with the Cuttledog meant that this morning I found a deer tick dug into my shin. Yanked it out, put antibiotic ointment on it…and wished it had been a dog tick instead, as disgusting as those are. Wondering now–should I just assume that the bastard had Lyme disease, or wait and keep looking for the bullseye rash? (No, I’m not a complete idiot–I’ll be calling my doctor and asking. I just thought I’d ask here too, just because I’m sick to death of grading.)