Sonnet: Elon Musk for Menà "ž
by John Kendall Hawkins
.
They say that if we clear the space debris
we'll have Motel 6s from here to Mars,
flophouses for the exodus from Earth,
complete with robo-prozzies who give birth
in Caesarean sections with no scars
-- a pop'n'fresh 'oid, velcro pouch baby
(who has your blue eyes but her motherboard)--
off/on bundled joy passed from guest to guest
destined for the Red Planet Orphanage,
cherubims flowering like desert sage,
and suicides arriving for paid rest --
nary a Lewis or Clark in the horde.
Even if you live the life of Reilly,
just what the f*ck do you find so smiley?
