Funny creatures these literary one percenters
All we really desire is occasional human intercourse
Which to others seams to come so naturally
So practiced its like a gift to them
Pristine in their illiteracy
And perfect in their social posture.
For us with minds too dissolved in the literature
Of previous centuries; the languages, the habits
And manners of the past crowd in upon us.
We have not the alphabet of social propriety
Or the basic rudiments of common human sentiment.
Even the crude sign language of the body and face
Cannot penetrate our boney heads.
Whatever words we choose must give offense
Especially if the listener be another of our kind.
We become pathetic in the attempt at polite conversation
We bristle, we snarl, we protect our little territories
Of intellect, barking at one another like seals
On a rocky beach.
These awkward wings have no utility
When brought down to the deck
On the ship of human interaction
For the people we know best are the imaginary
Friends of writers long dead.
Look how ridiculous we are in public!
With shirts tucked into our boxers
Food in our beards
Our tube socks with our wing tipped shoes
Why are we incapable of doing what to others
Comes so naturally?
But which of us would clip our wings
So that we could more easily navigate
On the deck of that ship?
