I detest green—

wear dark-tinted shades to alter trees and grass to nickel lead.

I am amazed to read how that relentless, lying chlorophyll is

slowly gassing us,

100 hues all whispering

“We do no harm,” while secretly beguiling us to water it

and spraying us with quasi-oxygen called ozone-xxx.

I put my Ray-Bans on, apace.

This protective vert-less vista

harks me back to olden, Nordic Ice Age panoramas

whose environmental threats

were all predominantly saber-tooth and mammoth-tusk!

That air was very pure, not vilely processed yet by so much

vampire chlorophyll,

while all those antelope we celebrated on our cave walls

kept the herb in check,

or so we told ourselves,

while verdure tricked weak human minds to cultivate it!

We became its slaves, nursemaids, provisioners! Race-traitors

sang its beauties—

not me, though!

I closely crop the grasslands into penal stretches one inch high

with special lockdown “greens”—

and all those bad Plant Kingdom hombres screech!

So lumber! Overgraze!

God said “Subdue it,” Don’t forget that. Okay? Am I right?

Tom Riordan lives in New Jersey. He’s a retired restaurant worker and teacher, and dreams about becoming pope for his next career.

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