My name's Aine,
I'm just two,
I'm not nearly old as you.
I can't even tie my shoe.
But today,
All by myself
(OK, I had a little help),
But I sat on my *****
Just the same,
And peed and pooped
Like it's a game.
Tomorrow, I think,
I'll do it again,
In my velcro shoes.

Called-up to muster on the streets,
Lay siege with pencils and paper shields,
Place couplet sentries on every corner,
March in-step with iambic feet,
Shoulder prosaic figures of speech.
Launch antithesis and irony,
Landmine metaphors and similes.

The poets engage guerilla warfare,
Surrounding the body politic
To water board with words and wit.
Our units are indeterminate,
Smearing ink for camouflage.
Be wary of everyone you meet,
Every tree lining your street;
We're making notes in small black pads,
To explicate the nots and haves.

Pens are shovels digging trenches,
Editing walls and blue pencilling fences,
Giving refuge to the marginalized,
From the onslaught of towering directives.

We're parading in our uniforms,
Raising banners, ragged and torn,
Calling on all to weather the storm,
To brace against cyclonic edicts
That swirl and funnel from posturing egots.

This poet is going to speak plainly.
I'm dropping the metaphors,
The similies, the analogies,
And all figures of speech,
But one -
Anthropomorphism.
A jack-***
Has been in-stalled.

From the Tower of Babel,
Being chiselled in stone,
Come forth new commandments
To appease the throngs.

One through three
Remain the same,
Following a change
In the demigod's name.


Numbers five through ten
Need some twerking,
Alternatively,
They weren't working.
Lie, cheat, con and steal,
Whatever works
To seal the deal.

Covet women and neighbour's goods,
Stay west of Eden's pussyhoods.

Number four stands alone,
The command is clear:
Honour the unborn, not the Mom.

After a frantic panic,
Babel collapsed in pitiful spite;
Its ruins scattered
On the western Atlantic.
Our world continued to spin,
Because we were resolved
To sin.