Sonnet to the Poor Man Whose Parents Named Him After an Amphibious Lizard
by Anitra L. Freeman
The Newt is too much with us, late and soon;
Strutting and preening, he lays waste all sense;
Too thick he is, and that much is too dense.
The dittoheads all echo to the loon;
The literates are howling at all hours,
They gather up his errors like spring flowers,
For this, for that, for all, they call him, "Goon!"
It moves him not. -- Great God! He'd rather be
A Christian suckled in a creed outworn;
So might he, standing in the grand TV,
Give glimpses that will make us all forlorn;
I had a vision that he came to me,
Tooting upon his own, well-wrinkled, horn.