I have heard many silly taunts
in my extensive time,
and they are never more clever
just because they rhyme.
Ignorance should whisper
like a muffled chime.
I am not proud
though you are too proud to see
that when the Grand Bungler
created you it also created me.
I am not mighty or dreadful.
I do not overthrow.
Those are your birthmarks.
You are your foe.
Poison, war are a scaly brood
for which I have no need.
They hatched in the nest with you,
and you are the fodder on which they feed.
Chance is a monkey
whose mischief ends at the tomb.
Fate and sickness are encrypted
when you are in the womb.
You are the slave
of desperate men and kings,
who look like lice to me -
or other insects without wings.
I am a lantern at the end of day.
I am not the Magnificent Fumbler,
who gave you feeble DNA.
I bring peace after you have done your worst,
and while I may eventually die,
you will die first.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 