Fugitive Pieces

My verses flee in all directions,

Not knowing if they're any good.

They think they are, not mere confections,

But whose to say, if think they should?

We know our world is built on lies,

But how explain to hoi polloi,

Content to love what satisfies,

Though run by robots who (?) annoy?

The trouble with that Ancient Greek,

And our old English too's that we

Have disremembered how to speak

Since Social Media set us free

From fears about autocracy

And sent us paddling up shit creek.

Note: The English term "hoi polloi" (/ˌhɔɪ pəˈlɔɪ/) derives from Ancient Greek οἱ πολλοί, "the many." Adding "the" is redundant; hoi = "the."

Wednesday, August 19, 2026