In a poorly lit cellar

A cramped speak easy filled with smoke,

And sounds of jazz

In a candle lit corner

Sat a dark man chained to an ash tray

Smoking vigorously as he chattered about whatever he felt like

“They want to control a virus”

“These guys!”

“Ain’t they the ones preaching”

“No God”


“Humanity as disease?”

“Ain’t that their colleges?”

“You’d figure they would embrace natural selection”

“But they want to be God”

“That’s the jist”

In that Smokey bar

Among poets, musicians, artists, and passerby

Sat the flawed logic, known as “man”

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