You bring in Moon Men to take your side, the way you always do.
They seem unaware of their own absurdity,
and miss the irony when I offer them cheese and a jaundiced look.
Martians, Venutians, your whole catalog of 1950's movie space-crash schlock
take up for you and goggle at me with their several eyes, some on stalks.
I've had enough. I'm going to swing away on the rings of Saturn
and land on a moonless world, where everyone is courteously silent.
But just as I start to unclench, here you come, with Moon Men to the right and left,
charting my shortcomings, agreeing after much discussion,
and then stuffing me into a sock to be swung like a cat until dazed, dented, dead.