Narrative Poem: The Supply Chain.

 

We were eating shredded paper.

It goes well with library paste.

Which there isn't any.

The supply chain, you know.

We haven't seen a piece of meat

since Elon Musk came back from Jupiter.

My wife stole a package of chicken paws

for the kids -- that's why we're all in jail now.

It's not a bad place. There's no bars.

The supply chain, you know.

The Mister lets us watch the sun dial.

And we have a rock garden behind the gallows.

When we get rehabilitated we have a lovely home

waiting for us in Haines City.

Provided by Mr. Hypocephalus,

the Greek shipping magnate.

He's going to give me a job.

Nutria wrangler.

I'll need a bullwhip 

and chapped lips. 

Until then we study tap dancing

and stamp out bumper stickers.

The kids really seem to take to it;

their latest slogan: "Always support the bottom."

Since there wasn't any library paste

we had to eat our shredded paper

with chimney soot.

My wife had hers on the rocks.

Suddenly the warden burst in

like a herd of sagebrush.

"The Governor has gone to Wichita!"

he said breathlessly.

We all knew what that meant.

Except the warden.

"What does that mean?" he asked me.

"The trucks are rolling again!" I told him.

The prison became a bedlam.

Riot and revelry took over.

I sheltered my family under

the spreading chestnut tree.

When it was over 

I took my family to

Ur of the Chaldees.

But there was only one 

Chaldee left.

The rest were on convoy

in Canada.

The vaccine, you know.