It’s almost judgement day,
We’d have a parade, an escapade,
To celebrate completion number five,
The big book of deviations, shocks,
And anything wrong side of normal.
They’ll catch that quirk of yours,
The midnight guilt at an ancient kiss,
That leaves you sleepless,
And blows away with breakfast,
Remember (or more likely not),
The counting of locked doors,
The pavement cracks not stepped on,
A dazzling myriad of missile chaff,
Disorders scattering like sweets,
One for everyone and some to spare,
For states to define the population,
To facilitate the shakedown,
Of a species, patented and owned,
Copyrighted in scripts for selling,
Everything from birth to death,
You’d be better with a crucifix,
Or crystals, or a remote life,
Of disinfected books and no joy,
A warm cabin in the woods,
With true madness and a pen.
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