Some Babies

Some babies come squirting out of their mothers
and dress up like preachers and gurus.
“Follow me,” say the babies.
“I know what’s going on.”

Some babies dress up like soldiers
and learn how to kill other babies for crude oil.

Other babies dress up like addicts, saying
“I just got here and it’s too much to deal with.”

Some babies dress up like artists
and spend their days being told to grow thick skin
by babies dressed as critics who never feel or make anything.

Some babies dress up like go-get-’em yuppies
and yell into iWidgets in cars that can park anywhere,
“Diversify the crypto with a three point portfolio,
ice the Suzuki deal and put the blockchain on top of the ethernet.”

Some babies dress up like newsmen
and tell everyone what to think about everything.
Other babies dress up like teachers
and tell smaller babies to listen to the newsmen.

Some babies dress up like rapists, saying
“You’re my thing and I can use you how I want to.”
Other babies dress up like victims
and stand frozen like ice where they were hurt.

Some babies dress up like factory farmers,
throwing pigs and chickens into threshing machines.

Some babies dress up like scholars,
adding “-ist” and “-ism” to the ends of words 
that nobody else understands.

Some babies dress up like mothers, saying
“The privilege of chopping myself up every day
is all the reward I’ll ever need.”

All babies come squirting out of their mothers
and start dressing as things they are not.

The babies all march off the cliff together
and, just in their very last breaths,
remember innocence.

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