Sickening Simulation Poem by Hannington Mumo

Common folks lose sight of their tread
And follow the trails of the sober instead;
Their perambulations end in expansive oblivion
Where nullity and vanity nurture a mucky union.

Pass by their indolent gazes and you'll be going
The same way they've always preferred to move;
Say anything and you'll be reviewing a pet song,
The very favorite that their mixt pleasures prove.

In their seeing munch any pie and you've bitten
The very chow that for long they haven't eaten;
Sip any beverage and it's their elected drink:
What they'd yet imbibe on hell's kinkiest brink.

Now go put on your unsurpassed attire
And you'll only have created a new fad,
A top obsession that puts them all on fire;
Their gown of choice from the very start.


So such is the fate of the well-reasoned man:
He's simulated by every naïve knave who can.