Clean your glory glasses, scrub the lenses
clean and see the Puissant Morons stare;
garbed in common guises far from unfamiliar,
guises fair as anyone you know or care, and
what they seem is who they are, and what
they do and what they don’t reflects their
heir to common rationality.
They’re film upon our ears and eyes
which mocks our haul to sanity – to plague
our petty little worlds with toxic insincerity.
‘Puissant’ I say, I meant ‘piss-ant’, but both
apply, they’re decadent, obsolete, a non-event.
Yet tell them so and bear their wrath; I’d rather
not, I’m kind of loath to bear more scars as
recent as today.
So why, you say, demur? Now are you man
or mouse? I’ll even purr if you can rub my fur
just right and suffer fools as gladly as the
next – but keep those bastards out of sight.
© 1965, I.D. Carswell
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