All rise!” intoned the bailiff,
And then everybody rose.
My lawyer took a deep breath
And then muttered, “Well, here goes . . .”
Her lack of optimism
Was quite warranted, I guess,
For the evidence was clear
And I had flagrantly transgressed.
Weeks ago, I had admitted
(And it started quite a fuss)
I don’t care for the behavior
Of the polyamorous.
I’d gone on to make some comments
Casting doubt on the idea
That “man-boy love” was truly
The next “civil rights” frontier.
Moreover, I’d advocated
Keeping those laws, at least,
Which banned conjugal relations
With the already-deceased.
I pled “Guilty!” out-and-proudly.
My judge, regal in his robe,
Most vigorously denounced me
As a “necrophilophobe.”
“And I feel that I must add, you’re
You’re a bigot, and a hater,
And I’m glad that I’m not you.”
“Let the prisoner be scolded
And referred to therapy,
Forthwith!” declared the judge,
And gladly washed his hands of me.
And that was that, and that’s why
I’ve decided to retire—
I’m a necropedophilophobe
No one would dare to hire.
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