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.


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