“Oh no! Who let that stegosaur back in?”
(It’s all I hear above their din, their cries.)
“His formal bulk offends us once again.”

I lumber up the steps without a friend
in sight, but hardly find it much surprise
they’d ask, “Who let that stegosaur back in?”

I waddle down the halls with no amends.
My fearful symmetry cannot disguise
how much my form offends them yet again.

I chortle with Jurassic joy to bend
their simple imagist and shapeless lies
by swinging wide my stegosaur back end

to hammer at the walls, to maim and rend
with cadenced lines. With glee I swing my spikes
to bludgeon their effete offense again.

Their steroidal lips cannot defend
their boring songs, their voices that despise
the way they’ve let a stegosaur back in
to frolic in a formal world again.