How the Next Generation Succumbed to the End of Morality

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

The prophet of doom with the sky for his book,
The world for his room, the moon for his crook,
Smelled musty, looked gray, seemed no everyday man,
An adventitious sop, possessed of gnarly, bent hands.
He scattered our cattle, ran off our best dogs,
Stood terribly still while our light morphed to fog,

Appearing little on the fatty side, balding, plus coughing while punctuating his remarks,
That lout, in addition to scrambling our email, and breaking into our most secure websites,
Claimed our prettiest daughters and the most assiduous sons. Thereafter, they vanished,
Leaving us wallowing in statins meant to cure cancer, sooth lobotomies, appease geriatric folk.

That prince of dull laughter, that whore from beyond,
That indigent grafter, thief, cutthroat, vagabond,
That juggler of fancies, that stirrer of crowds,
That sycophant pansy, dolt, felon, that coward,
Reified, for us, that pecuniary matters yet remain the cause
Of marital strife, of international conflict, and of gang wars

Subsequently, our children, the ones seeking luxuriant digs or sophisticated screed,
Insisted on staying enamored, on paying homage to that trenchant invader, on praising
His comings and goings, on followed him out of town, into conferences and workshops
Where all manners of critical thinking were lined up and shot down. He won; virtue perished.