The Song of the Postmodernist
The trouble with a sunrise is,
It puts an end to night.
Illiteracy I still crave,
Though I can read and write.
For dualism gets my goat.
Why cannot white be black?
Why should not hot be cold? What harm
In tautness being slack?
Why must a cause come with effect?
It’s such a dreadful bore
When liquid’s never solid, when
Twice two keeps making four.
I wish that God was Satan: that
We living weren’t undead.
How otherwise can I preserve
Postmodernist street-cred?
R.J. Stove