It is said there is life out of Earth,
Not just moss or some germ livin’ in filth;
There are beasts very smart in Syluthaarme,
A big rock with a vast digital farm,
Where they work not at all or too hard,
Have one ear, but three legs, walk backward,
Got one eye gazing far far away,
And complexions of more shades of gray
Than is seen here on Earth. Among the mass
Live a few who belong to no class,
But pretend that they share illusions
The less smart breeding mass envisions.
An asylum it is for the sane
In the insane’s needed stead feel the chain.
Sitting in a waiting room with twenty other men,
All waiting for the good doctor to come; and then,
I notice, we’ve been waiting for half an hour;
Some worried sick, just sitting with no power
To help themselves or others in the room;
Just waiting; and although there’s no more room,
Another one enters. No! Sorry! A pair;
Yes! Most people come with companions who care;
Or, pretend to care, and seek relief here.
They say, “He’s always late. He has nothing to fear!
He is the great doctor!” But why is he late?!
Is he watching? Is he smiling at our fate?
Or, is he sleeping with some pretty goddess?
When are you going to come Mr. Flawless?!
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m right; but if I’m right,
We are all waiting for him to ***, right?!
Forget it. This room makes illusions shatter;
All helpless, no relief; but, does it matter?
Giving joy, getting joy, never coy,
Often pretty, always called a toy,
She sells all that there is to deploy.
And there is she who is demure;
A teacher whose job is secure.
Some say that all teachers are pure.
And there is he who is a professor;
He is his father’s successor;
Just like his father’s predecessor.
The first one we call a *****;
She prostitutes her body more and more;
But the other ones we adore.
The professor prostitutes his knowledge.
He also sells his precious time.
And the teacher too makes the same pledge;
Especially while she is in her prime.
We all ******* something every day;
Yet only the first one’s a *******; yay!
— The End —