Aphorarchy

The common knowledge cultists dog your steps
Like missionaries chanting Churchill quips
While holding close their gilded checkbook hymns
Don’t listen to those dismal suits, my love

While they can cite quotations, jokes and memes
And sneer as though their words refute your soul
When placed into a pot and brought to boil
Like collagen, the wit sloughs off the bone

When peeling citrus fruits to have for lunch
You cast aside the pith to eat the flesh
The world is much the same in that it runs
On facts and not on clever wordplay tricks

Their arsenals of Reagan’s old canards
Are paper tigers barely worth a thought
The hammer sickle pair can best them all
So keep your tools at hand for me, my love