All my life I’ve felt myself being an outsider – an observer of the rat race – watching and studying the herd, the mob, the rabble, the idiots, scurrying around, keeping to their petty needs, and living out their meaningless lives, trying as hard as they might to keep their minds on things – on something, on anything, on anyONE for that matter – anything except for the ludicrousness of their existence on this little star called earth. “No, no! We don’t want to think about that,” they say. “Leave us in our laughably fictitious and puny worlds of self-deceit and masochism. We’re happy this way. Leave us be. Leave our lie(s) alone! What even gives you the right to be different, anyway?! Just who do you think you are – questioning? Questioning things?! Questioning us?!” Okay, maybe not in so many words, but you get the gist. Anyway, one day I sat down at my dining-room table, and finally wrote a poem about it.
SHEEP I THINK NOT
Wolves in sheep’s clothing – such faded attire,
Their existence so sad, ill, wasted, and minor.
Every morning they clad in their much needed lies,
Their race’s imprecation are their fatuous lives.
Where do I belong among this phantom-like herd?
Do I stay who I am to one day fly like a bird?
Do I dare herald what I know and have them devour me in my sleep?
Or do I indifferently stay to myself – estranged . . . “a creep”?
So execrable this state! So shamelessly visible,
But no matter how casuistic, always tepid and risible.
Perpetual stupidity; O horror! O horror!
A multitude of madness, abhorrent mind-meld lore.
Scurry off to your workplace, your churches, your white picket fence,
Scurry away; I can no longer handle the stench.
Recalcitrant as can be, I am firm in my stance,
I dare pronounce my judgment; bring your case to the bench.
Oh, these so-called sheep, how they fill me with fear,
Petrified of their dripping fangs so ready to shear.
Them insecure and in fright I declare poltroons the lot!
Sheep afraid of goats, but sheep...I...think...not!