And the Crowd Cheered

I was eighteen once.
At least the chronology is there,
Despite a retrospective glance
That suggests I spent the year hiding.

Eighteen is an age of war.
Hormones and your country’s enemies
Form an amalgam top heavy with sex,
And games devoted to super-sizing latent heroics.

While I masturbated as a feeble alternative
To actually risking contact with girls,
Many of my betters had mastered the games,
And concluded Ayn Rand had it right.

Fortunately, they saw themselves as John Galt,
Not the people who would be led to the promised land.
Unfortunately, many did not turn nineteen,
And continued to believe that gravity is optional.

Today, those senior eighteen year-olds
Still talk of kicking butt
And believe the “golden rule”
Is promoted by blood sucking socialists.

Tomorrow they will rule,
And discover that gravity is stubborn;
Compromise is essential,
And that they have been played.