The Walrus
A poem about one thing, one person, one point of view
Warning: This poem is not very PC. It might offend. It might not. No walruses were harmed while writing it.
When did Stupid move to the
top of the food chain? When did
idiot become a badge, like the
one Misty wears while serving
tri-tip and BBQ ribs at Ernie’s
Fucking Roadside Grill?
Please spare me the philosophy that it’s being
courageous. When did hiding behind
lies step in for bravery? Or
hate bump compassion from the
podium and rise to the top of the
polls?
There’s no honor in being stupid. There’s
only the dull ache as one’s dreams
are ripped out of them — while would-be
despots pretend to be caressing your junk.
Give it up and go back to just being
wrong.
Wrong is fine. Wrong is picking
the fish entrée at the Desert Cafe.
Wrong is telling your wife she looks
awkward in yoga pants. That screaming
soccer moms during practice is normal.
