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Poem

The farmer wakes to a great stir, a beast disrupts his brood,
But he can never catch his foe, for this beast shrewd.
He does not know he can’t contain this beast, for it is me,
He’s threatened, must strike first, but asks, what could I be?

Hey farmer, you’re mistaken, I ain’t no GMO,
You can’t control me, you don’t own me, I’ve got no Monsanto.
Or is it congress that you play at? You the FDA? 
I see you: one face, two face, a new mask every day.

But that don’t fool me, ‘cause I know exactly what you do,
Recombining DNA, using a virus or two,
Invading minds and bodies, creating dependants,
Whatever tactics you can find to keep your ascendance.

Externally are social ‘norms,’ which you have put in place,
To ensure we self-police, a sort of ‘just in case.’
Because deep down both you and I know you're losing control,
You want the hens to flock, can’t let one feel like it’s whole.

Even the roosters know their place, don’t want to deviate,
You’ve bred your livestock well, and they still procreate.
Yet you attempt to censor our private and professional affairs,
Forget the glass ceiling, these are the Penrose stairs.

What you fail to realize is I won’t spiral down,
I’ll break free of your illusions and make it on my own.
Though I may lead your flock is grounded in that coop built strong,
While I will fly my heart’s content your hens can’t come along.

For hens don’t fly, nor roosters do, that’s just how they were made,
And so I laugh while thinking that of me you are afraid.
Give up while you still can, my friend; your ways I won’t espouse,
Your problem, farmer, is that there’s an eagle in your hen house.

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