Elegy for a Hipster

The Black Sheep
                when she sleeps,
all she needs
                to keep her warm is
knowing she’s
                the baddest
fucking nonconformist
                that you’ve ever seen.


She would mock
                  the rest of them
“a thoughtless flock
             of drones!” she said.
Problem was
                the wool had been,
drawn over her eyes
             and pulled over her head.

And tho’ it looked
             quite silly, she would
cross her arms
             and condescend
and roll her eyes
             behind the fold
that she had thought
             was blinding them.

She pondered once,
           “Could it be true?
That I’m the fool
           instead of them?
Well either way
           it’s cool with me
‘cause irony’s
           my favorite thing.”          

And so she wandered
           into what she
thought was just
             a shearing shed,
‘twas actually
           a slaughterhouse
where she became
           a modern-day,
martyr to,
           the god
of
           Self