Sometimes it is so unavoidable,
by Herbert Nehrlich
the size of him or her, so unbecoming,
a rather stupid looking head and face
perched on the very top (no neck)
of massive layers of porcine lard.
They wabble, sideways through
the widest door available, and huff
and puff in an attempt to gather oxygen
to feed the cells of their cognition box
which, a sheer misnomer, does not need
much of those molecules of life.
They spend their lives in quiet desperation
by fretting constantly and spitting air
of foul and rancid character into the world.
The very sadness, if you think about it,
of trying to convince the masses when,
-though not for lack of trying- one has
not even a smidgen of a chance to be
successful in deceiving one's own self.
You'll recognise them by their pads,
fastened to sagging shoulders to make
a statement of equality, sadly, in vain.