When faced with the depiction of the judge,
to transfer $20 seemed unwise.
You see,
I can’t produce the necessary fudge,
perpetuate the Emperor’s New Old Lies.
Sorry, but
I’m not engaged in any battle
with my own, or someone else’s, gender;
I’m not up with the Newspeak prattle,
won’t mix the latest issues in a blender.
Judge,
your picture’s up, and stays up, out of fear:
fixed there by a guilt-deranged elite
who then condemn themselves to disappear
for passions unreflected on the street.
Bad news:
the plebs still trade the terms you all despise.
They process and respond to what they see,
and will until such times as techno spies
can monitor the mindspace of the free.
It’s true,
I won’t be winning any prizes soon –
your like will just dismiss me as a ‘hater’,
one miles and years behind, and out of tune –
but you’ll not be winning any later.