The Final Word

Pulsing and pulsing in the deafening orb

The writer cannot hear the muse at all;

Joy escapes; victories cannot sustain;

Meaningless memes intrude everywhere,

Mediocrity passed around, somewhere

The celebration of goodness is buried;

The talented lack desire, while the novice

Rages, a perpetual solar flare,

Obviously revolution is come;

Obviously the final word is come.

The final word! Then immediately,

A vision of the Seven-Headed Monster

Blocks the sun: a gray putrefied landscape;

A vile creature with body of a man,

And seven heads each named differently,

Its grand ego too full for one head only

Though it owns just one brain, it's soulless.

The silence builds again and it is clear

That all seven heads are eating the words

With which we would warn one another,

And how will we reward this usurper,

As he marches off to Pulitzer Land?