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Through the Looking Glass (poem)
By W. D. Ehrhart
"When the wise man points at the moon,
the fool looks at his finger."—Lao-tzu
And it doesn't take a philosopher
to notice that there's no shortage
of fools in this country these days,
walking around in combat cammo,
openly packing assault rifles,
wearing Glocks to the barber shop:
"Hey, look at me, I've got balls!"
Even the women, for goodness sake.
Or the folks who believe a woman's
body is none of her business,
and women on public assistance
are freeloading Welfare Queens,
teaching our children the actual
history of slavery is un-American,
and gay pride is abomination,
violent insurrection to halt
the peaceful transfer of power
is legitimate public discourse,
and half the nation is ready
to vote again for the grifter
who won't admit that he lost.
Speaking of which, what about
that "big, beautiful wall" Mexico
was going to pay for to keep
their dealers and rapists out?
And wearing masks to prevent
the spread of Covid clearly
violates my right to be stupid.
Meanwhile, the whole planet
is bubbling away like a pot
on a stove on high, and the cook's
asleep at the wheel. I know,
I know, a mixed metaphor.
And I have to admit this isn't
much of a poem, but at least I
can see the moon; it's up there,
grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
—W. D. Ehrhart