He was infected with wokism, his brain was on pause.
 Choking on a slow feed of koolaid  trickling down his craw.
He  felt short circuited, he sizzled and popped.
 He saw the floor he was standing on, had been recently mopped.
His eyes crossed and uncrossed, they bulged from his skull.
His forehead was bleeding from banging it on the wall.
He stood there and shuffled, a vacuous grin on his face.
He had a vague premonition, he was in the wrong place.
People were staring, he felt their eyes on his mug.
He heard someone saying, "Is that freak high on drugs"
He suddenly felt paralyzed, no way he could budge.
He heard a loud 'BRAPP' feeling his shorts fill with fudge.
Now folks were laughing or looking at him in disgust.
 looking confused or surprised, some seemed nonplussed.
What was he doing here, he was supposed to be woke.
He was starting to realize, this was all a bad joke.
Someone was playing games with his empty head.
What he wanted right now was to be unwoke in his bed.
Wasn't he President Brandon, he sure wished he knew.
He needed more drugs and meth, to see this day through.
He wanted to return to earth, but didn't know where earth was.
He was lost in the ozone, he could hear his head buzz.
He heard someone whispering in one of his ears.
That same strange old woman, that always appears.
Taking hold of his hand, she slowly led him away.
Whispering soothingly, it's okay Joey, you'll be okay.
D.L. Crockett -- 10/15/22