Good evening, sir, my name is Alice.
A man of peculiar predilections,
Lewis Carroll, made me, not from malice.
Rather, more so, from his affections.
A pen name for a man, pedagogic,
Charles Dodgson was the given name
of this Oxford professor of sound logic.
To me, he's Lewis Carroll, just the same.
If my creator made another choice,
and threw me tumbling down another hole,
and hearing not a rabbit's nervous voice,
you'd see a wormhole swallow me whole.
To a wormhole of logical conundrums,
let us take a wild, but confusing trip.
Well, are you ready, hear the roll of drums?
Put your thinking cap on. I'll let 'er rip!
Poets are illogical and write of Luna.
Nobody who eats tuna also plays whist.
Illogical people also eat tuna.
My gist? Do poets who play whist, exist?
While you are considering that my friend,
I'll go to my place in that charming book,
where Mister Carroll ensured my life won't end.
If you want to see me, come take a look.
Monstrously Machievellian
Demonic pedagogic
Ominously Orwellian
Demagogic logic
Fools’ Musk-ovite mules
Zuckerberg zeitgeist heist
Dickensian dystopia rules
Google last post bugle
Fossil fuels myopia drools
Bellicose Bezos blows
Bro-ligarchy mates’ malarkey
Unions demonstrate
Amazon defenestrate
Hades Gates hierarchy
In the dock
Murdoch foxy skulduggery
Poxy TikTok runs amok
Crass puns..shock thuggery
This lot don't give a jot
.
Bitter sh**ter Twitter
Greedier needier seedier
The death of mass media
X marks the spot!
Shattered and battered by the inequities of life
Dark nights hindered shrouding luminous skies
In a childhood that missed the thrill of playgrounds
And adulthood that ran a solo sprinter’s marathon,
Crossing continents on pedagogic visions of joy
When testimonials of knowledge bestowed wings to fly;
And there I landed far from where nothing was
And molded its shape into works of arts and crafts
From humble sketches outlined in the grains of sand—
In prairies of essence now a happy abode stands.
September 29, 2019
Placed 1st: Story of my life in ten lines poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
No amount of political education
could quell his mingling organ they call ‘simple brain,’
while mutations from grammar association
to unravel civilization's complex pain.
His shield prepared against another man’s logic
a mind opened only to serve his needy soul,
he knows the whole wide world lost in pedagogic
actors all on strings portray their orthodox role.
Many years he stood in testament of this place
a visual creation of his ancestors,
deluge of emotion the wind of change did brace
where cultures collide to appease his molesters,
forced to greet one’s neighbour face to face in shackles
before moral bait preached from veiled tabernacles.
© Harry J Horsman 2019
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