Á La Mode (Poetry)

The world has changed — conceit’s the latest fashion,
so death to all those values fondly held —
integrity and truth and honest passion
are relics, curious but boxed and shelved,
while conscience has a get-out clause to ration
the blame for each redundant virtue felled.

Truth counts for nothing now that facts are fickle —
turned fluid on each tongue that trots them out,
trite promises are worth less than a nickel
devalued in a currency of doubt
when warning neck-hairs rise, stand up and prickle
as cowshed smells waft strongly round about.

Old principles in shreds, the smart go-getter
tucks his thoughts like aces up his sleeve,
plays the game and apes the brash trendsetter
by cutting cloth to suit the current weave,
and pockets faith — next season may prove better
with classic lines allowing hope to breathe.

Meanwhile, the uniform is stiff and sorely rubbing —
political correctness buttoned tight
and cheaply made — a mess of random slubbing
designed to fool the ethnic-loving white,
while in the dressing-up box children, grubbing
for self-expression, grab whatever’s bright.