He dished them all the scorn they merited.
They whined about forgiveness in reply.
Because he was alive, he knocked them dead–
But they would not admit the need to die
To the familiar and insistent lie
They’d made the center of their comfy game.
He let sharp words of truth, like arrows, fly.
They were struck, but acknowledged no fierce shame.
A satirist proves hard at last to tame.
When all the lying snowflakes cry, “No fair,”
He only laughs at how their shtick’s so lame.
They dare him. Smiling, he accepts the dare.
And, even when they’re scattered like the dust,
He resolves not to let his scalpel rust.