Down ivied halls it echoes, proud and terse:
“Here’s what we are—extol us!—and a pox
on those of you who aren’t: We’re diverse!”
How ardently they labor to coerce
the rest of us to swell their orthodox
echelons! How fervently they curse,
in unison, those stubborn and perverse
misfits (us) who shun their lockstep flocks,
their banderoles proclaiming: We’re diverse!
This odd disinclination to disperse,
this lust to be a bonbon in a box,
to parrot back the chapter and the verse—
what is it? Manifestly, to immerse
oneself in sameness, don the comfy locks
of ideology, and thus converse
sans discord’s a relief: Who’s not averse
to strife? What’s simpler than a drawer of socks,
each one a perfect match? There are far worse
things than concord: just ask any nurse.
And yet life, with its thousand natural shocks,
leads some of us to think, rage, rise up, purse
our lips, and speak, while we await the hearse.