I was OK till I reached the
mirror stage,
happily following my desires and instincts—
shillelagh-law not yet the rage.
But I had to turn a different
page,
hang out in somewhat different precincts
when soon-enough I reached the mirror stage
and directly started to amaze
myself by rehearsing a different style of oink.
Shillelagh-law became the rage,
my pretty face left in
the lurch,
all blurry and punch-drunk—
I was OK till I reached the mirror stage.
I wasn’t smart, but I caught on
fast
that my life was now all about packing a trunk
of camera-shots—my own images played
like disco lights on a dancer
in a cage
who can’t stop thinking they’re just a doink—
barefoot-clogging on their mirror-stage—
since shillelagh-law became the rage.
