god is dead: 25th century ode to the Clever Motherfucker

it's the 25th century
everyone says what they feel, now,
and everyone feels good

government stopped lying, now,
cause there they gave up
regulating the particulars.

the world is ruled by cryptic
hipster poets have their top researchers
look up more intriguing ways to say

really insightful things

world's been trying to form a treaty
for the leaders would just stop
trying to journey into themselves

and just agree that everybody's
just as creative as evrbody and
just end the creative process and

keep the world's minds at ease

the people don't know about it,
though, family's just sit around
their dinner tables, talking abough

how their poet viceroy has laws of
aphorism that don't have the literal's
litigation but the figurative's e-man-

cee-pation: it's just so open to inter
pretation. people don't resent them
selves, people don't hurt nobody

everybody's happy in that 25th
century, neuropharmaceutic
companies make their duty out of it

they're the new pastoral sheep herding
thoughtful high priest who neuter's
your depression's neurons

world knew it was for the best,

except the poem kingqueens,
who knew that if they dare
subdue the melancholy

there'd be nothing bittersweet
no words that came out succulent
no wisecrack way to say their

conditional truths

they know that, knew that, and keep
that knowledge within their family
lines and at their treaty sessions

the one thing that they can agree on
is said at the end where they decide
that they'd rather keep on getting

beauty's praise than relax and join
the people's jollies

"thank god there is no god to tell
anyone how to interpret our words
or they'd see right through us, man,
they'd see right through us."

said one Poet, and the rest of them
agreed resentfully, and then another
retorted

"Thank god there is no God"

the poets killed that Poet

"How the fuck could we top that?"
they all said. they killed him and
all wrote dreary odes trying to

get their people to croon

their way