III Publishing


a poem by William P. Meyers

Well I ain't the least bit sorry
For what I say or am
I won't be deconstructed
And I just don't give a damn.

You say it's all illusion
A construction of your mind
And everything's confusion
That folks that see are blind.
That objects are just labels
And blue's the same as green
You say it's all illusion
But your academic scene
Still gives grades to the confusion
While you suck up to the Dean.

Well the world is no illusion
'Cause people have to eat
Sure some of them get porridge
And the lucky ones get meat.

So if you cannot tell the difference
If you deny that it exists
See if you can make
The illusion of a fist
And pound your phony fist
Into your illusion of a head
And deconstruct that action
Until your body's dead.

Copyright 2014 by William P. Meyers, all rights reserved