The Problem with Socialized Medicine


Theosophists knee-deep in sapience
cajoled by the chimes of a Hatteras ad-lib,
a faint printemps just beyond hearing range,
a roan gelding the sum of your aesthete's Mephisto,

when treaties come in increments to turmoil,
sounding programmatic reversals—
each publisher a morbid Trinculo on hashish,
a hermetic agate sop,

native, though they be brandishing alway
the Tartar standard, refuting male pregnancy,
the lords in Ishtar gnaw on many a fey dolman—
part of their panacea outlook—

who only must obey curt apostasies
with a right jagged tong to defy,
making a talking jaguar emerge
in doublet and hose, how awesome.

All who limp through such a tourney shall commit
to loaning the holiday women some tureen,
a dry panel of sweetbreads in the offing,
a paltry amphora nip

as advanced in the soapy insulin wager,
developed in congress with the dogie vitamins
and the rank of avatars whose cleft ankles
lack any foreign surname,

adding up to a format of crass autonomy—a
slow pan over the aldermen as they whittle,
rapt by the odor of a frying manta,
spattering fatty acids in the ceviche regime.