Don’t yield,

don’t buckle,

don’t be goaded

by the sheep in wolves’

clothing, trying to

look and talk so

tough, the hawkish

chickens clucking all

around the senate floor

and on all the Sunday

morning news shows

leaving little white and

black sticky piles

behind.

Don’t inhale the

histoplasma

rising up

in the house. Out

fox the foxes who

want to invade

the hen-house

again, and again

and again and

again.

Don’t put your

cojones

on the chopping

block.

Don’t let the

foolish farmers

in the smelly

barn snip, clip and

singe you only

to have you

run back to

the litter and

get crushed

when the sow

rolls over on you.

Just

hang tough.

Don’t cross your

legs like limbs

on a bush.

Keep the peace.

Don’t be a pox

on the house

by seeking Pax

Romana, that

which shatters

life and limb

to pieces

and burns

down the

barn.