The Distribution Of 'Judgement' Poem by jim hogg

This is no day for jumping up and down:
the skies are in turmoil and the bitches
have wagged a pungent silence
out of minds so small their limits
are beyond them. The first signs

were a wafting of northerly, devoid
of the slightest imputation, and, obviously,
intense listening – loud enough that we might hear
their incoming weather front announce:
“our global warming is over forever, ”

until, that is, the next autonomous fox
has them all teeth and technical awards
and certificates of glossy evidence,
to smother home truths an old dog
might take a couple of barrels for,

before they set about sniffing out
conveniently killing statistics
from the blizzard they’ve demanded.
No rum do could do without them
and their paper mache morality

some guru they’ve never read
cluelessly chewed out of Adam Smith.
Their roundabout spins on hearts
of broken wire, sucking suckers in
to get thrown off for a price

that’s supposed to set them free.