Stranger in a three-cornered hat,
standing and firing questions,
you have stepped into my world
out of a picture.
Phenomenal, my world is to you,
isn’t it? I’m proud.
The sights are rare,
the thighs are bare,
and we control the temperatures
of our homes.
Buy Westinghouse while you can.
Those are lovers you see —
you must know them well.
That man is not shaving his lawn,
he is trimming it
until he replaces grass with plastic.
But your eyes —
they remain cool and amused
at the sight of towers scraping clouds,
sleek steel birds humming overhead
and streamlined beetles groaning past
in orderly streams —
Diseases aren’t widespread,
they aren’t exotic anymore,
though colds are still common, yes.
That man in uniform is a servant
of the people,
though he doesn’t wash their dishes.
Those familiar faces filing past
in ranks with outrageous placards
are citizens exercising their right
to protest, with no fear of censure —
it must gladden your heart
that they can do so freely.
Smog will not persist, mark my words.
That pall of black smoke
is the work of Weathermen —
they don’t work every day.
But your eyes —
they bother me,
they are blind buttons
that don’t see the reason why
people are restless —
it is summer,
the season of boredom,
short tempers
and revolt.
There’s plenty of it
in a lot of places
most of the time.
But wait, don’t fade away
with a shrug that says
you don’t want to stay.
Time is all we need —
that’s not too much to ask for,
is it?
Huh? Huh? Now
is it?

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