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Folly's End

I’ve enjoyed writing for many years. I'm dedicating more time to the craft in my retirement days.

He is small

I mean really small

Hardly visible at all

With unmitigated gall

Who can think only of himself

And no other

Not sister

Not brother

Nor father

Nor mother

Nor family writ large

Oh, he’ll use the name

Play the game

But it’s not the same

It’s not real

He doesn’t feel

Not the way we do

Me and you

And so many others

But it’s not our druthers

That drive his train

Pull his caboose

Cut him loose

He travels to the beat

Of a different drum

Not parumpapumpum

It’s a different score

Perhaps written

On Tralfamadore

With strange characters galore

Picture of a Trafalmadorian

Picture of a Trafalmadorian

Including Kurt Vonnegut

And old King Tut

And a mangy mutt

Named Constantinople

And so it goes

Now everybody knows

That the tunes

Are looney

Very cartoony

Looking not real

Like a hand-drawn stick man

Humming Macarena

On the drive to Pasadena

On Route 66

Just before he kicks

The can

Or the bucket

This is the way

Some might say

Like the Mandalorian

We should watch that show again

With popcorn

And peanuts

And a candy-coated prize

It’s a feast for the eyes

An old Western

But new

In outer space

In a galaxy far, far away

Where when they say

I have spoken

The conversation is broken

Ends right there

Nothing else to enunciate

Then the characters cogitate



In silence

As they ride along

On the backs of blurrgs


Slowly trudging through the desert

With Baby Yoda in a sack


Alone on a desolate planet

Except for the bad guys

Who might just inspire

The guy who’s small

Hardly visible at all

With a mind to match

What scheme might he hatch

If he were there

With a monocle

Eying the spectacle

Of folks on blurrgs

Mere words

Will fail

To assail

Such creatures

As this

Who grunt and hiss

As they trudge

Passing by

Pan to the sky

Fade to black

Add some stars

Zoom in on Mars

The orange planet

And remember the day

They attacked

On orders from Titan

Via the Rumfoord Taj

This whole collage

Could be a diversion

From the real subversion

The conversion

Of orange

To set things apart

From their surroundings

A safety measure

To save blood and treasure

And now to turn it

Into something different

A meme

Alongside Wilson

From Cast Away

Who had no brain at all

Was just a ball

But a fine companion

Sort of a D’artagnan

But there weren’t three

There was only one

And in any case

We’re all over the place

Earning frowny face

Not sticker star

Now we’ve come pretty far

To say how small he are

Or is

Twinkle twinkle

Little stiz

Or star

Oh by gar

By golly

Time to end the folly

And grow up


© 2020 greg cain

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