Stooping low is below me. I wish that were true.
And these times are not normal, so I do react
To what I judge as bullshit disguised and served cold
To whomever will listen. My heart is not sold
On the judgment of dead folk with deficit tact.
If you’re working with spirit then what’s wrong with you?

Michael Jackson is gone now. You can’t let it rest?
His accusers, still living, have mostly moved on
To fulfill their predictions. They’ve left him alone
For the best part. If you feel that he must atone
For what has not been proven your spirit is gone
By the wayside. You have nothing I would digest.

What the hell am I doing? While craving for news
That is much more substantial than talking head soup,
I’ve devolved into mystical fantasy land.
What is there has less meaning than I would demand.
I cannot judge another for how low they stoop.
Times are ripe for fomenting of virulent views.