From streetcorner pulpits near and far.
We’re watering wisdom’s seed with fear.
If your melanin’s under par,
Slave-trader heathen, listen here:
God’s own holy unpronounceable name
Now translated for you: Whites Are To Blame.

King JAMES was black. You heard it first
From me—before those Israelites
Began to preach to the accursed
Of Edom (meaning heathen whites).
So, his authorized text is meant
Only for those of true Hebrew descent.

No flaming redhead Scottish king
Was he who bore Azania’s crown
Upon his brow. It’s time to bring
The truth. James Stuart? Dusky brown.
No bagpipes here, nor usquebaugh, nor oats.
Just afro-polyrhythm’s gladsome notes.

Mansa Musa filled his coffers;
Sub-Saharan James grew wealthy;
More than Solomonic offers
Kept King James both wise and healthy.
No puppet monarch for Britannic schemes
But African sage, of vision and dreams.

ELIZABETH, of Albion’s fame,
Was also misperceived for hue.
A white rose, yes. But only in name.
Pure African was she—it’s true!
You’ve been lied to about these royal folks;
High time we rewrite such ethnic jokes.

Don’t believe the Edomite hype.
They want to keep our tribes suppressed--
And Moses is our prototype;
His law we follow, and we’re blessed.
REAL understanding: it’s something you earn.
Once gained, ain’t no trick you cannot discern.

No context needed. History
Is mainly Edomite propaganda.
King JAMES was black. No mystery.
And Edinburgh’s in Uganda.
The first king of Scotland will not be last…
Our exegesis is unsurpassed.

      The ACCUSATION

Your verse has offended the Muses. The blame
Must be laid on your poetry: limping and lame
As it drags itself over the last crippled line;
A dead-end for your readers (but you missed the sign).
Your scrawling has challenged the unwritten code
And it’s far more than meaning your readers are owed…
We need RHYTHM with ORDER and measured RESTRAINT;
More range in your palette might help you to paint
Us a picture where color and nature, enhanced
With the music of syllables leave us entranced.
But instead, all your verbiage has put us to sleep,
For your lines are as shallow as Boredom is deep.


       The ARGUMENT

Rhythm is ORDER and order is key.
It is only through measure that music is free
An offense to the Muses, depressing to hear,
Is a verse without rhythm, insulting the ear.
Lyric STRUCTURE brings LIBERTY. Freedom gives life.
Free verse?  Oxymoron—and morons are rife.
Confessional slop . . . yes it’s free, like a prison;
But MEANING grows clear in the service of reason.


       The JUDGEMENT

Your poetry’s up for the yearly review:
Mostly sighing and dithering. Sorry, it’s true.
Your muses are clueless, so send them all packing.
Your modernist drivel is found to be lacking
In context, coherency, substance and wit.
Upon careful re-reading, the Verdict: it’s ****.
As regarding the rambling verse you call “free”,
A real Muse, unimpressed by your English degree
Would imprison your lines and then throw out the key.

I suppose I'll be in a Nursing Home one day
  drooling all over myself
And still plotting revenge on this world for
  having wronged me so,
Or maybe I might just be dozing, probably
  having another nightmare
I might find myself on a train somewhere and the conductor he suddenly
  announces
"Next stop Dementia City
After that it's Alzheimersville"
I'll awake with a start
And then...then I'll see her... this beautiful
  vision just walking in
Elderly like myself but still so ladylike
Still so lithe and graceful
I'll tell my Nurse to quickly get my false teeth
And my good wig
And my walking frame
And to give me a couple of those heart tablets
I'd think to myself "I knew she'd come... one
  day"
It'd be one last chance for Love... one last dash for Love.

So moving slowly but determinedly across
  the floor toward her
I'd probably get a pain midway
And then keel over
She'd not see me, she'd have her back turned
  to me
The Nurses they'd be showing her to her
  room
She'd be walking away
I'd try to call out but the words they'd get all
  garbled and stuck in my throat
I'd try to reach out to her... reach out like
  she's some mirage in the desert
My last gasp... my last gasp for Love
But...too late...
Too late, the Hero.

Perfect happiness’ greatest fear?
The Other is deplorable.
Extravagance is insincere;
Proust’s mustache is adorable.

I’m only up to number seven.
Uninspired, its time to bail
If Marcel P. was barred from heaven
His essays were a massive fail.

Marcel Proust, you silly fellow
Prose overwrought, effete and gay,
Puffy mama’s boy marshmallow
You’re Hell’s to toast . . . now roast away.

May virtue’s signalers all thus burn;
This uninspiring questionnaire
Will mainly cause one to discern
That heads are up their derrière.

True verse can never be a list
Of humanistic questions asked.
More fit that some psychologist
Should have their godless soul thus tasked.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Networking, presenting the numbers
Adjusting the data for benchmarks
Reviewing best practices
Speaking vapid motivational drivel
Accompanied by pastel-toned slideshows
Full of dull corporate graphics—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Acting with intention
Staying centered
Celebrating balance and cultivating awareness
Curating selfless acts of charity
(yet still suppressing God at heart)
Being connected in authentic community—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Believing in yourself to achieve your goals
Seeking your own inner light to guide you
Recognizing how deserving you are
Working towards what makes you happy
(denying there will be a judgement of your soul)
Creating your own reality—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Ready for any feminist feat
In her ****-tube and starry skirt,
Wonder-Woman looks petite
(though probably ought to don a shirt)
In, fact we’d better make her black
Before her foes, unhinged, attack . . .

Go-go boots show off her legs
Muscled for emancipation;
And for bearing wonder-eggs
Through empowered ovulation.
Binary gender’s warrior queen
Bursts forth upon our sexist scene,

And bristling with the strength of ten
Of her not-so wondrous sisters,
She centers red-starred crown, and then
She’s off to fight the truth’s resisters:
Rosie the Riveter’s better half—
An old-school feminist sacred calf.