Poem: Don’t shoot the messenger

You don’t shoot the messenger,
you fuck the message up.
You hold your rights close,
cuddled to your chest,
knuckles white,
as if they’ll be stolen
by some punk minority
or a foreign-looking fella
who says he was born here, but
he’s clearly not one of you.

You don’t shoot the messenger,
you fuck the message up.
Because if we’re all equal,
who will you lord it over?
Fucking hell,
who will lord it over you?
Natural selection will see
you at the bottom of the pile,
scrambling for purchase in the mud
of your prejudices and intolerance.

You don’t shoot the messenger,
you fuck the message up.
Because it’s not manly to admit
that you’re wrong.
It’s not the done thing to accept change.
Only losers admit defeat.
A real man stands staunch to the end,
even in the face of overwhelming opposition.
Even in the face of truth.
Of justice.
Of right.

You don’t shoot the messenger,
you fuck the message up.
And now the message is fucked up,
just like you.

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